Chance
by Spada2014
Summary: Some believe fate is immutable, fixed like the stars in the sky; others believe fate is forged by one's own hands. A strange game of Wicked Grace sets events into motion, prompting Grey Warden Jayne Cousland to examine her notorious companion, assassin Zevran Arainai, in a new light. Story explores their relationship & friendships (picks up at Brecilian Forest before Landsmeet).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_This story began as a one-shot and ended up evolving into something much larger...I always liked the depth and complexity of the Zevran romance in DA:O and wanted to explore that in greater detail. I use events and dialogue from the game to guide and propel some of the action. As always, I'm open to constructive criticism; I'm relatively new to fan fic and want to improve my writing, so do reach out if you feel like it!_

_Another thing: Let's agree off the bat that I *know* that dialogue is supposed to be indented. Let's pretend it is formatted like that here! My spacebar and fingers thank you in advance for your generosity._

_PS- No Shale. Sorry. I didn't get to Shale until later playthroughs of the game because I hadn't gotten my hands on the downloadable content (I know! But in my defense- no indent, either! We have established my relative incompetence in certain technical matters). It didn't feel as natural to write her in, even though I liked her bunches._

_PPS-I rated this as "M" just in case. Things don't get really explicit- much of what goes on between the sheets is implied or hinted at, but I like to have options. Wait...where are you going?_

_Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Cheers!_

* * *

><p>"I fold," Jayne Cousland announced, placing her cards down before her. Neither Zevran nor Leliana seemed to notice.<p>

_ Serves me right for thinking a game of Wicked Grace with two trained assassins would be 'fun.'_

She liked to play cards— it was a regular pastime for her growing up and it always had been entertaining. She'd picked up a deck of cards during their travels and back in the early days, when it had been only Morrigan, Alistair, and her, she and Alistair used to play the occasional game for distraction, to delay sleep and the inevitable darkness that encroached on their dreams.

"Would you like to play with us?" she'd asked them amicably. _The more, the merrier, _she imagined.

She couldn't have been more mistaken.

"Wicked Grace?" Zevran asked, sitting between Alistair and her.

"Orlesian rules," Leliana demanded.

"I would have it no other way," he deferred charmingly.

"Good! I have a deck back in my tent."

"Errm…What are we playing?" Alistair asked.

"A betting game. You'll learn quickly!"

Alistair glanced sideways at Jayne, who shook her head, just as puzzled. They'd been playing the usual games she'd played as a teenager: Fox's Den, Carillon, Siege. Leliana returned with a square wooden box she set down on the blanket which they were all seated upon. She flicked the lid open and handed the set of cards to Zevran.

"These are beautiful," he complimented her, inspecting the cards.

"Thank you," she grinned. "They were a gift, long ago."

"They're in remarkable shape…no blood stains even!" he teased.

Leliana smirked. Alistair's eyes widened.

"So! How do we play?" Jayne asked.

Before her were elaborately painted images depicting snakes, daggers, angels, musical notes, and warriors clad in armor.

_ How intriguing! _she had foolishly thought.

They played a few innocent matches together, as Zevran and Leliana explained the rules. Five cards per player. One card discarded per turn. One card added. The objective was to have the highest number of matched cards. Angels were the most valuable suit, Daggers were the least. The musical notes were Songs. The warriors were Knights. When the Angel of Death— a card framed with a swirl of tiny black roses and a winged skeleton holding a scythe— turned up, the game was over and all players had to reveal their cards.

_ I think I am getting the hang of this! _Jayne remarked to herself, organizing her cards by rank in her hands.

"Shall we make a little wager? To make it more…exciting?" Zevran suggested casually, placing two coins at the center of the blanket.

That had been almost an hour ago. They hadn't been playing for twenty minutes before Alistair declared himself out of the game by tossing the cards down in distress.

"How is this possible? Can you explain this? I tossed out the Serpent of Avarice, Leliana tossed out the Serpent of Decay…but you had all four Serpent cards when the Angel of Death came up. That is cheating, in my book!"

"Did you see me cheat?" Zevran asked amiably.

"No— but…it's obvious!" Alistair blurted out.

"If it were obvious, then you would have seen me do it, no?" Zevran replied.

"Alistair— Winning at Wicked Grace takes more than luck. It's a game of skill," Leliana attempted to explain.

"When you say 'skill,' what exactly are you referring to?"

She glanced at Zevran as if hoping he would step in. He grinned lazily, flipping one of his newly earned coins.

"Would it be 'cheating,' by any chance? Is that what you mean by skill?" Alistair insisted.

Leliana tilted her head and shrugged innocently.

"How…How is that fair? Can someone tell me?" he complained. "Isn't it a better game when you leave it up to chance?"

"Some of us would rather make our own luck," Zevran winked.

Alistair marched off to his tent in a huff.

"Wicked Grace indeed! Stupid gallows game—" he could be heard mumbling.

"Warden?" Zevran nodded, dealing her a card. She hesitatingly plunked down three coins. "Ah," he grinned approvingly.

Now, after a few rounds, she had been humiliated down to one coin. She inhaled deeply and wondered which of the two before her was more ruthless: the Antivan raised by whores and murderers on her left, or the Orlesian schooled by corrupt and unscrupulous nobles on her right. Down to two players, the game had acquired a frenetic pace. Zevran and Leliana flipped cards faster than her eyes could follow. Cards flew on and off the small mounds before them, yet the discard pile never seemed to increase significantly.

Zevran pulled yet another card from the deck, stared at it, and pointedly turned it over.

The Angel of Death.

"Ah, the time of reckoning."

The small fan of cards Leliana held contracted in her agile hands into a slim row she cleanly splayed across the blanket.

Four Daggers.

Just as she finished revealing her cards, she swiftly caught Zevran's hand midair. He'd attempted to pull a last card from the discard pile.

"No, no…" Leliana censured him sweetly. "Let's see your cards now."

Zevran sighed and tossed the cards down, as if admitting defeat. Leliana ventured a triumphant smile.

Four Knights.

Her eyes narrowed as Zevran let out a victorious whoop before grabbing the coins at the center.

"Jayne, would you please shuffle the deck for the next round and deal the cards?" she suggested, eyeing her lost gold, dragged to Zevran's corner of the blanket.

"Again?" he cried amusedly. "I'm game," he grinned, leaning in.

_I can't follow any of this, _Jayne sniffed, grabbing the cards and clumsily stacking them into a disheveled vertical pile. Both expert players watched her with pained expressions as she sloppily attempted to split the mound in half and shuffle the cards awkwardly and slowly.

"Shall we bet in earnest now?" Zevran proposed, languidly rubbing his neck as he observed several cards spill out from Jayne's mixing pile.

"Why not?" Leliana replied jovially, gingerly pinching the last column of her glinting coins, placing it squarely in the middle.

Zevran pretended to be preoccupied with counting his earnings before looking down at the wager.

"What is this?" he scoffed. "Even Hurlocks carry more gold than that."

Jayne turned to Leliana.

"Perhaps we should call it a night?" she asked appeasingly. But Leliana shot him a dismissive glance.

"I presume you have something worthwhile to put up, then?"

He stretched and reached beneath his shirt as if to scratch his chest, but instead reached into the small pouch he carried around his neck at all times. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a small shiny object.

"I've had this for many years," he explained, twirling a delicate golden earring between his fingers. Little diamonds encrusted in the small gold hoop sparkled in the firelight. "It's striking, isn't it?" He raised it to their eye levels.

"Are those yellow diamonds?" Leliana asked, her curiosity piqued. "May I see it closer?"

He offered it to her, but just as she reached for the earring, he quickly dropped it down between his fingers into his fist. It reappeared less than a second later in his other hand. Jayne audibly gasped and for a brief moment he was distracted by the expression of amazement on her face. He shook his head at her and laughed.

"Warden, the face you are making right now is too much," he finally said, pausing to catch his breath. "Here," he stretched his hand towards her and casually tapped the bottom of her chin with his fingers. "Close your mouth. I like you more as the fearless Gray Warden than the impressionable Fereldan bumpkin."

Jayne shooed his hand away irritably. Leliana rose, lightly brushing off her legs and told them she would return, as she made her way back to her tent.

"That's right, Lelibella…go dig through your valuables…and don't come back with some tacky Chantry trinkets," he murmured as he waved.

He sprawled across the blanket, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Do you want to play a quick hand while we wait?"

"I have nothing of value left to bet. I am down to one coin!" she complained.

"Oh, but you do…" he offered suggestively.

"Please spare me. Do you really think I'd wager myself? Especially when I have seen how the two of you play?" she asked him bluntly.

"Wager yourself?…" Zevran appeared to be mulling the possibility. "I hadn't thought of that…but I like it," he responded with false naiveté. He grabbed her foot and squeezed it. "I will put myself up for our wager, too! It's a win-win. Shall we just skip the game altogether and go back to your tent?" he purred.

Jayne exhaled audibly from her nose as she shook her head. She avoided his stare, his warm amber eyes, filled with mischief. She wished she could match his nonchalant flirtatiousness, but she was well aware that she had never been good at bluffing— at any games.

Leliana came back with an ornate red leather sheath. She pulled an elegant black dagger from it and displayed the weapon before Zevran's covetous eyes.

"It really is quite a weapon," he remarked sincerely. "Why do you never use it?"

"I was saving it for a special occasion," she replied enigmatically.

"What? You plan to stab me after I win it?" he teased.

Leliana raised her eyes at him.

"What makes you think you will win this time?" she inquired defiantly.

"Just a hunch," he answered, running his fingers provocatively through the modest pile of coins he had amassed.

"Put your money where your mouth is," she challenged him, tossing the scabbard at the center. The mood shifted. Zevran cupped his gold and dumped it next to the scabbard. He turned to Jayne and offered her the earring.

"Would you hold this for me, Warden?" He faced Leliana again and declared, "May the best man win."

"Wherever he may be—" she quipped back, annoyed.

He took the deck and offered the cards to her.

"Please," he gestured encouragingly.

She calmly collected the cards and fluidly riffle shuffled them a few times. She then proceeded to deal the new hand. Jayne pulled her legs up to her chest and hugged her knees with her arms.

_This is not going to end well, _she worried. _How did this escalate so quickly? _she wondered, glancing at Zevran out of the corner of her eyes.

She had to admit he was fascinating to watch. Whether he was executing his deadly attacks in combat, or simply gesturing during a conversation, his movements were fluid and graceful. At that precise moment, he was absorbed in his cards. Her eyes ran over his chiseled face, the full lips, long lashes, then the light, sandy colored hair that had been casually arranged into a short, lopsided ponytail. He wore a plain white undershirt and she could make out the outline of the small pouch beneath it, hanging from the length of rawhide around his tanned neck. She became aware that she was openly staring when he looked up and caught her, his bright amber eyes blinking in slight surprise. She lowered her gaze, feeling her face flush and braced herself for the inevitable teasing that would ensue, but he said nothing.

They were rapidly discarding cards and just as deftly replacing them. Jayne attempted to keep track of their movements, but she couldn't trust her eyes: cards moved strangely, slipping beneath piles when they had been tossed on top, disappearing between fingers and reappearing as if pulled from a fresh pile. Zevran had just plucked a replacement card when Leliana suddenly grabbed the dagger and plunged it forcefully at what appeared to be his hand.

"Brasca!" he shouted, startled, as Jayne had futilely tried to grab her arm.

The dagger landed exactly between his splayed indicator and middle fingers. Zevran took pause and faced Leliana with a puzzled expression.

"Put it back," she replied coolly. "Don't cheat so brazenly," she chastised him. "It's insulting."

He snickered, raising both palms at her appeasingly. The Angel of Death was tucked between the edge of his sleeve and the bottom of his wrist. Leliana pulled it out hastily and handed it to Jayne.

"Put it somewhere in the deck," she pointed to the large, unturned bunch of cards. Jayne attempted to cup her hand over the stack to conceal her motions as she tucked the card back into the bottom of the mound.

_Merciful Maker, is this even a card game anymore? These two are going for each other's jugular and I will have to intervene before they succeed._

Both players appeared to redouble their efforts and the flashy sleight-of-hand spectacle continued, with one or the other pausing only to consider options or confirm a decision. She noticed Leliana's stern expression ease slightly. Just as she wondered whether or not she had a hand she was pleased with, Zevran pulled a card from the top of the deck and announced, "I have the Angel of Death. The game is over."

Jayne and Leliana stared incredulously.

_What? I placed it at the end of the deck! _

Leliana frowned as she pat the edge of the blanket near her cards.

"How is that possible?" she asked with alarm. "I thought I had—" but she stopped herself from saying anything further, much to Zevran's amusement.

_Had what? _

As Zevran stared back down at his cards, Leliana glared at Jayne in frustration. She allowed her to watch as she deftly pulled the card she had hidden beneath the blanket and added it discretely to her hand. She showed it to Jayne, a grimace on her face. It was the Song of Autumn.

Jayne suddenly understood: _Sometime between plucking the card from Zevran's sleeve and handing it to me, Leliana palmed the Angel for herself to use and handed me a different card! __Very devious! _She looked at Zevran. _But _s_omehow, before Leliana took the card from his sleeve, he managed to swap it out for a different one. Doubly devious._

Four Knights were aligned in the row Leliana had laid out before them. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Zevran nodded thoughtfully and pondered the hand he held closely before his face. He breathed in deeply and reached for the earring in Jayne's hand, contemplating it silently. He shook his head sadly and Jayne could see suppressed excitement begin to manifest itself in Leliana's face.

Zevran collected his cards, tapping them on the blanket. Jayne expected him to fold, shake his head some more, make some pesky comment to diminish Leliana's victory.

Instead, he leaned towards Jayne, and showing her only the back of his cards, asked, "Can you blow on them, please? For good luck."

Jayne wondered how that would help and blew on them hesitantly. Zevran turned back to Leliana, who was as curious about the little spectacle as was Jayne. He proceeded to reveal his cards:

The Angel of Charity.

The Angel of Fortitude.

The Angel of Truth.

The Angel of Death.

The four Angels: the toughest— and most valuable— combination to achieve, since the Angel of Death was the card that would end the game.

Leliana finally snapped, "You cheat too much!"

"How is that?" he said sharply.

Leliana opened her mouth to protest, but sat back, her arms crossed. In order to expose him she would have to admit she had tried to palm the Angel. Instead, she composed herself, and after a quiet moment, pulled the dagger from the ground, sheathed it, and wordlessly offered it to Zevran.

He clasped his hands together and grinned patronizingly at her.

"How about this: tell me what you know I want to hear and I won't collect my winnings."

She was taken aback.

"What do you mean?" she asked earnestly.

"Say: Zevran, you truly are great…The better of the two of us."

Leliana frowned.

"Goodnight," she replied crossly, seizing the dagger and storming off to her tent.

The campfire cast flickering shadows all around them. Zevran sighed.

"I couldn't have done it without you, my utterly gorgeous Warden."

"What are you talking about? I still don't know what just happened."

"It is very simple," he explained, collecting the cards and neatly dropping them into the box. "It was magic. You are magic— you blew on my cards and I won, just like that," he spoke to her in a low voice, sweeping a strand of hair away from her face.

_Command yourself, Jayne, _she ordered herself, when jolted by his fingers as they brushed against her cheek_. _

"I still don't get it," she grumbled. "You cheated…She cheated…Why bother?"

He moved his face closer, peering into her eyes.

"Who cheated better, though?"

It dawned upon her then. It had never been about the wagers, the winnings. It had been about _skill_. Leliana had said so, hadn't she? Wicked Grace was a game of skill: who was faster, who was more cunning, who gauged the opponent better, knowing when to strike and when to defend?

That had been no card game! That had been a duel! And Leliana had retreated to her tent to nurse her wounds, now that the pecking order between them had been established.

The eyes before her were those of a skilled predator. Clever, calculating, and determined. She stared into them.

_What about this easy playfulness, the affectionate teasing?…Could it be fake? All lies?_

She remembered his words, days ago, recounting stories about his Antivan past: _I grew up among those who sold the illusion of love…_

_Is he playing a game with me? Why?_

"Warden?" he said, sitting back, a tinge of concern in his voice.

Jayne could not respond. A sickening hopelessness began to overcome her, as if one sad thought was strung to another, and another, until the floodgates threatened to burst. His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly, but then he smiled impishly.

"I can think of something else you could blow on that would be quite magical…" he stated with perverse delight. Her hand shot out instinctively, seeking to slap him on the head.

"Aiie!" he interjected, deflecting her attack. " I was only trying to be helpful! Since you are such a disgraceful card player, I thought perhaps we could stick to the basics…"

The strange spell had been broken and she felt safe again, the outrageousness of his words bringing her back to a familiar place between them.

"I'm going to bed," she announced, standing up. One look at his arched eyebrow and she added emphatically, "Alone."

"Is that a lament? Perhaps…an invitation?"

"A warning," she added tartly.

He laughed.

Back in her small tent, she went through the motions of preparing herself for sleep in the dim lighting before lying back into her bedroll. It was fruitless, however: sleep eluded her. She found she slept less and less. Her slumber was restless. Instead of finding herself falling asleep, it was as if everything she struggled to keep silent within breached whatever defenses she had propped up. The deep-seated fears, worries, grief, and hurt all brimmed up, drowning any logic or rationale. At first she had blamed the Taint. The visions of dank, putrid burrows, and ancient words hissing through her head haunted her in the beginning. Alistair had explained it was their connection with the Darkspawn.

"You can let it crush you or you can use it to your advantage. You'll learn to block it out."

For the most part, she had. What Alistair couldn't teach her was how to still her mind from racing back to Highever or Ostagar. Lying there in the tent, she relived hell, again and again. A sharp cold chilled her from within and she shivered. Gathering her blanket around herself, she emerged from the tent seeking the warmth of the campfire.

Zevran was still sitting outside, a blade of grass tucked between his lips as he turned his head over his shoulder to watch her walk towards him. He observed her with curiosity. She settled next to him and they remained in a comfortable silence for several minutes, staring into the fire.

"No sleep again?" he finally asked.

She wanly shook her head.

"This won't do. You'll be so tired, I'll have to prop up your arms when you fight the Archdemon," he grumbled. He wiped his hands on his black breeches. "Would you allow me to do one thing for you? It will help you sleep."

She searched his face for the customary mischief, but he was being sincere, as far as she could tell, and waiting for her permission.

"No tricks," she answered. He reached for her shoulders and carefully pulled her down on the blanket they were sitting on, resting her head sideways on his leg. He placed one hand on her arm.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, looking down at her. She shut her eyes tightly, her heart beating rapidly. He caressed her arm soothingly, reassuringly. "Is this alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. He cleared his throat and began to sing very softly in his language. It was a lilting song he sang rather badly. Jayne stifled a giggle and he paused abruptly, flicking her on the forehead.

"Sssh!" he cautioned her. "Rude Fereldan. I'm serenading you."

"I'm sorry," she chuckled. "It's… a lovely song."

"You lie like a fishmonger at the end of the market day…That's fine, because this is a very dirty little Antivan song, and you don't know that," he grinned and resumed his singing.

Jayne smiled. The warmth of the fire, the gentleness of his touch, and even the faint singing, were a shield, a barrier of sorts against the despair that threatened to close in on her soul.

_Illusion or not, _she thought, as she drifted off, _I'll take my chances with whatever this is._


	2. Chapter 2

The cart was packed and Bodahn led his mare to the road. Alistair stood at the edge of the clearing they had laid their camp in for the past few nights, ushering them onwards. They had a long journey ahead of them until they could make camp again and were not sure whether or not they were heading in the right direction.

"Jayne and I will lead. Leliana, Morrigan, and Zevran: take the rear."

"Gladly. But whose rear shall I be taking? Yours?" Zevran replied saucily.

Some laughter broke out among them. Jayne noticed Wynne had to turn her face away to conceal a discrete grin and even Sten, despite his stern demeanor, made an odd, guttural bark, as if clearing his throat.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" Alistair mumbled to her. "I believe he's assassinated more people with his bad double-entendres than anything else."

Jayne smirked as she unfolded and shook out their map. They had heard from a group of refugees headed to Denerim several days before that the Dalish caravan they were seeking settled inside the Brecilian forest farther south from where they were. She hoped the Dalish would honor the old treaty and join them like the mages and dwarves had agreed to. Every bit of support mattered, and not just to fight the Blight; she needed to confront Loghain in Denerim. She knew she would have to participate in the Landsmeet and it was of the essence that when she challenged Loghain's claim to rule, she not only have the evidence needed to damn him before all the nobles, but that she give them a viable alternative: a united Ferelden under the rule of Maric's only remaining heir— a Grey Warden who'd been able to unify the land's traditional allies during its greatest time of need.

She and Alistair had spoken about his becoming king many times. At first he'd been reluctant to even consider the possibility, but Jayne persisted. There was still much of the Chantry boy in him; he had come to believe that as a bastard, he had no right to assert any rights to the throne. He was deferent to all the noble hierarchies in Ferelden, and believed his rightful place, had he never joined the Grey Wardens, should be a marginal one. Still, if she was going to die defending Ferelden, she wanted to believe she was leaving her country in the hands of a trustworthy, honorable, and just ruler. The fact Alistair hesitated so much to accept such a fate made her conviction, that he was the rightful heir, stronger. After all, as her father had always said, "It is those who claim they are worthy of power that often deserve it least." Her father, she remembered, firmly believed that any leadership position was a great responsibility. "To serve Fereldan," he'd remind Fergus and her sternly, anytime he felt they had behaved in an entitled or unbecoming way to their station in Highever.

Echoes of a happier past made her melancholy as they trudged the steep paths. They had been walking for most of the day, she realized, with only short breaks. As she looked around, she took in the tired and sullen faces. Conversation had ceased a while ago as each person fell into a taciturn silence, either absorbed in thoughts or concentrating on getting through the trek.

"Should we stop?" she asked Alistair. He peered over his shoulder at their haggard group.

"There is a lake or a pond farther ahead— about three miles," he said, pointing to a road sloping up a cresting hill.

Exhausted as they were, she was glad they had covered as much ground as they had; Alistair calculated they were close to the border between the Hinterlands and Southron Hills. In another day or so, they should be able to find the Brecilian Passage, and from there, travel along the coast seeking signs of the Dalish. As she examined the map, she grinned at their winding trajectory. They had been careful to avoid any Imperial Highways and any roads that were too remote. Between Darkspawn and Loghain's guards, their travels had literally become voyages off the beaten path. Since they were resting for one night only at that stop, they left Bodhan's cart mostly packed. A gust of wind raised leaves and dirt, rustling through the trees and low lying bushes.

"Feels like it is going to rain," Morrigan stated, a grimace on her face as she examined the sky. The others stared at her warily; she was seldom wrong about any weather predictions.

They put up a few of the tents, grudgingly agreeing to sharing the cramped spaces as best they could. Three people was the absolute maximum each tent could possibly fit. They had worked out that one tent would go to Oghren and Sten ("We can count more or less the size of three men between the two of them," Alistair had reasoned), another to Bodhan, Sandal, and Zevran, a third to Wynne, Alistair, and Morrigan ("Just like my Templar days!" Alistair had interjected sarcastically) and the last one for her, Leliana, and Rune, her faithful Mabari.

"I want to request a reassignment," Zevran protested. "Bodhan and Slipper snore—"

"SANDAL!" they yelled.

"Yes, well, he still snores," he completed.

"I'll go in the tent with them, it don't bother me none," Oghren offered.

"Then I want to share the tent with Sten," Morrigan stated. When faced with puzzled expressions, she continued, "He is quiet. I don't feel like listening to any prattling."

Alistair glared.

"You can share our tent," Wynne said to Zevran.

"Are you sure?" he sidled up to her, gallantly raising her hand to his lips. "I do not know if I can be trusted in the presence of such loveliness…"

"I'm sure Alistair can defend himself," Wynne retorted.

"No offense, but his feet smell," Alistair complained.

"No offense, but you are a prissy man," Zevran countered.

"What is your preferred weapon for assassination? Your used socks?"

"Your frilly undergarments," Zevran said, gesturing obscenely. "My marks die of laughter."

"Leliana, Wynne, and Zevran can share a tent; Alistair, Rune, and I will share the other!' Jayne finally interrupted.

Her voice had an edge of impatience and everyone quieted down and went about their business. In the nearby distance, thunder rumbled ominously. The first drops began to pelt the canvas heavily, and they all scurried off to their shelters. As Jayne retreated into the tent, briefly surveying their makeshift camp, she caught Zevran's resentful glare from the tent across, just as the door flap fell.

She tossed her bedroll on the ground hoping that the tent's tightly woven and waxy canvas would hold up to the storm. A damp cold rose from the floor and she cursed the thin bedroll. The wind buffeted the tent walls as ribbons of rain whipped the roof. Rune buried his nose in his outstretched front paws and sighed heavily.

"Are you angry?" Alistair asked.

She was and opened her mouth to tell him so when she noticed a pinpoint of light outside. She stomped to the tent's opening, and undoing the ties, stuck her head out in the rain and shouted at the top of her lungs:

"NO CANDLES! NO LIGHTS WHATSOEVER!"

The light faded and darkness enveloped them.

"We are sitting ducks in this muck! Do they want to attract attention to our camp?"

Alistair rolled out his bed mat and attempted to make himself fit on the narrow rectangle. The cold clung to them, even beneath their layers of clothes and heavy blankets as they lay in silence listening to the storm.

"Alistair," she whispered after a long time.

The blanket rustled as he turned his head towards her.

"It's at times like these that I feel the smallest, the most helpless."

Tears welled in her eyes. She heard more rustling beside her. She remained still as his hand bridged the gap between them and brushed the side of one of her breasts. He continued patting around her aimlessly.

"What are you doing?" she asked calmly.

With Alistair she knew better; she always afforded him the benefit of the doubt.

"I am reaching for your hand. Where is it?" he whispered confusedly.

She blinked back the tears, suppressing a laugh. She reached for his wandering hand and held it tightly.

"I wish I had something brilliantly inspiring to tell you right now," he said. "Something to allay your fears. I never expected to find myself in such a wretched mess. I definitely would have passed on the whole Grey Warden experience, if I had known," he joked.

"Would you really?" Jayne asked, genuinely curious.

He breathed in and remained quiet for a moment.

"No…Probably not. Duncan was…" his voice trailed off. She squeezed his hand. "He," Alistair finally continued, "would know what to say to you right now."

"This is a nightmare," she murmured. "One day I had a home, a family…It's all been taken away. It is as if the Maker were trying to burn me to the ground and salt my ashes. Sometimes I feel…It is all too much, Alistair. There are only two of us. How can we do this?"

"I don't know about that," he replied.

"What part?"

"There are several men and women just outside who have tied their fate to ours. Of course, they may be squabbling and kicking in their minuscule tents right now and cursing our names under their breaths, but we are most definitely not alone."

Jayne listened.

"We have somehow managed to convince the Templars, the Mages, and even the Dwarves to honor their alliance with the Grey Wardens. This is bigger than you. It is bigger than I. Those people are not pledging their alliance to some decaying pieces of parchment. They aren't only bound to us because of the oaths made by ancestors they never knew. They will follow us to fight an Archdemon because we offer them hope."

She knew he could not see her face, but she was smiling.

"Spoken like a true king, my lord," she responded admiringly.

"I could get used to that," he chuckled.

"I can't sleep," she confided.

"I know."

"I keep awakening, startled."

"It isn't much better for me," he admitted. "But I find I can still hold the nightmares at bay."

"How?"

"Little things," he said.

"Like what?"

"I don't know— there isn't one thing, exactly. Sometimes it works better than others."

"I don't understand.

"I find there are times I can block them out so they are merely background noise."

She sat up.

"You have to tell me how you do it."

"Well, Duncan was the one who told me— that it is the small things, the things that give you pleasure, that you love, that help distract you from being constantly in contact with the Darkspawn. Duncan always advised me to cling to who I am, not to forget the things I value. He explained that the Taint could be like an undercurrent, dragging you farther away from yourself and closer to that collective hell those creatures lurk in."

Jayne pondered this.

"And what is it that helps you, specifically?" she asked.

"Cheese," he deadpanned.

She chuckled.

"Frilly underwear?' she joked.

"That bastard!" he confided. "I mean, I know we are BOTH bastards, technically, but he embraces the definition fully."

"You have to agree that he brings a much needed levity to our group, though," she reasoned. "He can be a welcome distraction."

"Right…Who do I want to kick in the balls more? Let me see…Archdemon…Zevran…Hmmm…It's a close call."

Outside, lightning flashed, followed by an explosive crash of thunder. Rune whimpered.

"It's so cold," Jayne shivered. "I wish this storm would pass."

"Shall we?…Like in the early days?" Alistair asked. "Come," he lifted his blanket and pat his bedroll. Jayne rose to her knees and dragged her mat next to his.

"Rune!" she called. The Mabari hopped up and Jayne could feel the slight breeze from his tail's wag.

"Lie down here, boy!" she encouraged him. He stepped gingerly over the blankets, burrowing between Alistair and her. Alistair threw his arm over the dog.

"An exceptional source of warmth."

She reached her arm over Rune, clasping Alistair's shoulder.

"Thank you, Alistair," she said softly.

"Don't mention it," he replied. They were silent for a minute before he spoke again. "No, really—don't mention it at all. Ever. I am cuddling a naked Mabari. Think he'll still respect me in the morning?" Rune wagged his tail again. Jayne closed her eyes.

_I am holding my two best friends close to me. Here, in this moment. This love is happiness. Take that, Archdemon._


	3. Chapter 3

Jayne grimly reached up to her nose.

_Good. It's still there._

She withdrew her hand; her fingers were tinged with slippery blood. It trickled down her throat, raw and briny.

_Get up._

She was aware of her name being shouted in the distance, but the hulking Ogre had turned his attention back to her. He'd raced up to them after they'd cut down the band of Hurlocks that attacked near the path to the forest's entrance, swinging his log of an arm and sending her hurtling into a wall of rocks.

The monstrous creature steadied its beady eyes on her, as she scrambled back to her feet and raised her sword.

_I hate Ogres. _

A small volley of arrows hissed in a tight arc across the air and into the Ogre's back. He roared, visibly irritated, but began to stomp back towards her. She grasped the pommel of her sword tightly, gauging how she should attack. She had to wait for him to swing first and either strike at him hard or run beyond his reach. She did not want him to make contact with her again and send her flying against the rocks. Her vision blurred slightly and her eye began to sting.

Behind the creature, Alistair and Morrigan raced up the slope and halted. Morrigan extended her arms beside her and as if straining against some invisible force, pulled them together again, hands splayed outwards, the air before them wavering slightly before igniting. A burst of flame unfurled against the Ogre's legs. He swiveled around, rocking his fist at them. They leapt back.

"We need to distract him! Get him out of here!" Alistair yelled.

Sten invested against him after making a running start, but even he had only managed to make the Ogre stumble backwards. Oghren spun around, releasing his heavy maul towards his head. It slammed into the side of his horn, causing him to stagger sideways a bit. He was now facing the others and getting angrier. She felt a firm hand reach for her arm.

_Wynne! _

The woman pursed her lips gravely as she looked into Jayne's face.

She signaled for them to slip away, but as they moved to circle the rocks, the Ogre whirled around once more. Wynne grasped her arm protectively and defiantly staked her staff between them.

Before the beast could react and lunge, Jayne's field of vision was obscured by a flash of light golden colored hair standing before them. Facing the Ogre, Zevran shouted,

"Come at me!"

The Ogre waved his arm as if shooing a fly away. Zevran deftly ducked away from the sweeping motion and stood at his right, plunging a dagger into his flank. The monster let out a furious howl. Zevran agilely stepped behind him, forcing the creature to turn in his pursuit. He reached into his belt and pulled out what appeared to be two slivers of silver tied to some fine string. He continued to call out to the Ogre provokingly. The Ogre lunged at him, but he jumped forward, tumbling between his legs and stabbing his calves with the silver slivers. Rising immediately and ignoring the growl of surprise from the Ogre, he circled around him swiftly, binding the string tightly around his legs.

"Leliana!" Zevran shouted.

Arrows soared through the air once more, hitting the Ogre's twisted torso as he struggled to right himself. His legs were constricted by the string. As he reached down and began to struggle with the ties around him, Alistair charged at him, his longsword pointed squarely at his abdomen. Sten attacked at the same time, and Morrigan raised her hands once more, ready for another fire strike. Unable to move freely, the Ogre made a motion to rush them headfirst, but clumsily stumbled to his knees instead.

Jayne shook herself loose from Wynne's grasp and ran to him, throwing herself against his back. Struck unexpectedly, he crashed into the ground. Jayne climbed the Ogre's back and he attempted to buck her off him. Digging her heels into the creature's flesh, she raised her sword over her head and plunged it cleanly into the back of his neck.

_Die!_

The Ogre thrashed, blood spurting in every direction.

"Is it dead?" she cried.

They stood around her, but instead of staring at the immobile Ogre, all eyes were fastened on her.

She could no longer hold her head up, she realized foggily, as it lolled weakly to her shoulder, a dizzying torpor overcoming her as her vision faded.

"Alistair," she began, before collapsing.


	4. Chapter 4

"Eat," Alistair ordered impatiently.

"I don't feel hungry," Jayne groggily explained, attempting to pull the bandages Wynne had wrapped tightly around her head and over her left eye.

She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious for— apparently long enough for them to carry her back and travel a few miles north. She had awoken in the cart, between sloppily bundled tents, bedrolls, and two small chests of Bodhan's almost depleted wares, jostled and shaken, the pain in her head nauseating.

They had abandoned traveling through the Brecilian Passage, the fear of being overrun by Darkspawn very real after their encounter. They set up camp hastily, unsure of how to proceed. Night fell around the campfire as they went about their usual chores. Wynne had just returned from giving Sten an unguent for the deep bruise on his shoulder.

"He told me Qunari have no use for our healing ways," Wynne complained.

They observed from the front of her tent as Sten sniffed and poked the unguent suspiciously.

"Just rub a little bit on, you stubborn man," Wynne pleaded quietly.

She turned her attention to Jayne, sitting listlessly before her. Clasping her hands together, she softly recited an incantation. A cool tingle overcame her, as if pins and needles were spreading across her head, followed by a slight buzzing when Wynne placed her hands over her head. Morrigan observed Wynne with interest.

Rune's head rested on Jayne's lap, his large brown eyes staring into hers plaintively. She pat him reassuringly.

_I'm alright, boy. I live to fight again._

Wynne examined her handiwork carefully.

"That Ogre threw you against the rock wall hard. You are fortunate the cut wasn't further down, or there could've been permanent damage to your eye." She laid her hands over Jayne's forehead, the familiar coolness bursting forth. "I'm bringing the swelling down the best I can."

"Thank you, Wynne," she finally spoke.

The woman had a kindly, confident manner, like a mother dispensing care.

"Thank you, Alistair!" Alistair interjected in a falsetto, thrusting the bowl of soup at her again.

She relented, grabbing the bowl.

"You should at least drink," Wynne advised her.

Morrigan stepped forward.

"Can I try doing that?" she asked.

"No!" Alistair yelled. "You'll accidentally incinerate her."

Morrigan glared at Alistair with disdain.

"I never do anything by accident."

Wynne waved her over.

"I could use your help."

Morrigan recited the words she'd heard Wynne utter, and the woman nodded, adding a few more, and positioned her hands. Jayne's eyes fluttered as she felt the humming cold over her head again. It was stronger and more intense.

"Gently, now. Light hands," Wynne directed, looking over Morrigan's black feathered shoulders.

Leliana and Zevran made their way to them.

"We checked the perimeter and nothing seems amiss."

"Is anyone else hurt?" Jayne remembered to ask.

"No, dear. Sten's shoulder is bruised; maybe he has dislocated it. I don't know. He won't let me near it," Wynne stated with a frown, noticing her pot of unguent abandoned on the ground.

"Zevran is complaining about his hooks," Leliana stated.

"What hooks?"

"The two hooks he stabbed into the Ogre's calves," she continued.

"Antivan Fishing Hooks," he explained. Seeing that no one seemed the more enlightened, he continued, "They're not really for fishing, you see…They are more like…tools of the trade. I can only find a replacement set in Rialto."

"Enjoy your trip," Alistair remarked.

"I would, very much— that is, up until the first garrote over my neck."

They stood in silence, observing Morrigan working on Jayne.

"What a terrible day," Leliana sighed, sitting down.

"And what a terrible dinner," Zevran noted, taking a whiff of the stew sitting in the small bowl in Jayne's hands. "I can think of swifter and more humane deaths."

"We are all doing the best we can," Wynne interrupted, smiling amiably at Alistair, their chef.

She placed her hands on her back and winced as she attempted to roll her shoulders backwards.

"Maker, I am getting too old for this," she complained.

Zevran put down the spoon he'd taken from the bowl in order to inspect the drab colored stew.

"My dear Wynne, let me alleviate your discomfort," he suggested, walking up behind her.

Wynne glanced back at him, almost plaintively.

"My back has been bothering me since yesterday's walk."

He nodded, understandingly.

"You should ride in the cart," Alistair stated.

Wynne shook her head.

"The cart is such a boon— I wouldn't dare overburden that poor mare. She has to pull a heavy load as it is."

Zevran held her arm as she lowered herself into a sitting position. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.

_Aren't we a winning group,_ Jayne remarked to herself. _One Ogre almost put us out of commission. _

He grasped Wynne by the shoulders and squeezed them tightly, pressing his thumbs into her shoulder blades. Wynne cried out faintly when he first applied pressure, but Zevran continued to knead her steadily, eventually working his nimble fingers down her spine. He pressed on her lower back with the heel of his hand and she let out a contented sigh.

"That feels so much better," she said, gratefully. "You are very skilled at that."

"I'm skilled at many things…" he smiled smugly, working his way back up.

"I will take your word for it!" Wynne chuckled.

"I've never had a dissatisfied customer," he insinuated.

"Except for Loghain," Alistair added.

" He too, would have been most satisfied if he had hired me for a massage instead," Zevran replied, unfazed.

Jayne observed those shapely hands moving so purposefully over Wynne's back. They were firm, muscular hands, but also elegant— the fingers were long, the nails kept short and tidy. _Tools of the trade, _his voice echoed in her head. The tingling had spread to her whole body. Her entire being felt as if it were pulsating, every heartbeat amplified.

"You have such strong, gorgeous hands," she said dazedly.

Alistair and Leliana shot her alarmed glances and even Morrigan paused.

"See?" Zevran quickly filled in the awkward silence. "Even the Warden appreciates—" but he never finished his sentence, as they all turned to her at the sound of the bowl tumbling down, her body slumping sideways, unconscious, to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

_Am I finally dead? _she wondered, her eyes shooting open.

It took her a moment to become accustomed to the darkness, but she realized she was ensconced in several layers of blankets, inside a tent. Outside she could hear voices. She turned her head in their direction, trying to listen in. She couldn't make out their words very clearly. She caught snippets of conversation— just simple banter, mostly between Oghren and Alistair. She turned her head away from the door flap. Although the tent was dark, she sensed a presence beside her. She startled, drawing in a deep breath.

"Don't—It's just me," Zevran whispered, his finger placed before his lips.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Making sure you are breathing," came the reply.

"I am breathing," she assured him, surprised and confused.

"You hit your head hard while fighting against Ser Ogre. I only trust healing magic so much," he explained. "Wynne thinks Morrigan was healing you a little too… enthusiastically, and that is why you fainted."

Jayne's mouth felt dry, her lips cracked.

"I do feel a little bit better," she said, "but I need a drink."

"I don't think we have anything stronger than Oghren's ale, my little lush—"

"Water!" she interjected.

Zevran laughed lightly, reaching for the canteen hanging on his belt.

"Here." He handed it to her.

She sat up on her elbow and took a sip of water. Her head still throbbed slightly, but the fogginess had lifted and the nausea had subsided. The water felt cool and satisfying as she gulped it down. Finally sated, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the canteen back to him. He lifted it and took a long draught before caping it shut. She did not know why, but watching him drink from the same canteen stirred her, a flush of warmth climbing up her neck. It was such an intimate gesture.

_Soldiers do it all the time. There is no room for being squeamish about such things, _she reminded herself.

"I am glad you are feeling better," he said.

"Really, now. What are you doing here?" she asked.

_Be on your watch, Jayne. On your watch. What is he doing, sitting over you in the dark like this? Are you such a foolish goose that you forget he was hired to kill you once?_

"Wynne asked me to keep watch over you."

"No, she didn't."

"No, she didn't," he agreed. "But I took it upon myself to do so anyway. Did I ever tell you about Nurio?" he asked.

_Disconcertingly honest and cleverly evasive._

"Who is Nurio?" she asked, turning her body to face him.

"Nurio…Ah, poor Nurio…" he began. "I'll tell you all about Nurio, but it is going to cost you."

"I only deal in honest currency," she declared dryly.

"As do I, my delightful Warden, as do I. Honest currency is the best kind to swindle someone out of," he declared. "What I need is for you to give me one of your blankets. I am getting cold here— and stiff…not in the good way, either."

Jayne tossed one of the blankets in his face.

"So cruel, yet, so generous…" he stated wistfully, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. "Much better. Now, where were we?…"

"Nurio!" she demanded.

"Ah…Nurio was a ruthless Crow assassin. Short, barrel chested, and dark. Nurio played the part of idiot well; no one gave him much thought and that was exactly how he liked it…"

Jayne relaxed and became absorbed in Zevran's tale: Nurio and he running through secret underground tunnels, then disguised as boatswains as they later crossed the Main Canal in the Merchants' Quarters in Rialto, angry palace guards in mad pursuit, and finally he and Nurio leaping from a tower window, after retrieving a gem encrusted necklace, the damning evidence of an inappropriate affair that a high ranking courtier demanded returned. Her mind was ablaze with his colorful descriptions, imagining him performing his dastardly deeds and making his bold escapes in the dead of night, and brazenly, beneath a brilliant sun as golden as he.

"Nurio hit his head after a fall. He blacked out for a few moments, but we thought nothing of it; he was up on his feet afterwards, as agile as ever. Later on, when we were hiding out at The Crimson Feather, a Crow-controlled brothel on the lower south side of the city, Nurio skipped out on the celebrations. He said he was tired and wanted to rest a bit. I saw him sit in one of the corners of the room and shut his eyes. He fell asleep… and he never woke up again. We tried to awaken him, but he was dead," he paused. "I should never had let him go to sleep. If only I had kept him awake, perhaps he would still be alive."

"And that's why you are here?"

"You reminded me of Nurio."

"Short, barrel chested, and dark?" Jayne asked skeptically.

He laughed again.

"No..no…but you can play the part of idiot very endearingly."

He paused and she saw him slap himself lightly on the head.

"Here, Warden…Forgive me. I know you can't express your disapproval at the moment, so I hit myself on the head for you."

She shook her head.

"Was Nurio your best friend?" she asked.

"He was a fellow Crow, you understand. Friendship…is a relative term, I guess. We worked well together. We complemented each other's styles. I was more subtle, smoother…and he was blunt and forceful," he stopped, as if lost in his memories for a bit. "It was a good mix, on the job…and off the job…We enjoyed each other's company…in many ways."

Jayne's brows furrowed.

"In many ways?"

"Many ways," he replied meaningfully.

"Many ways…as in… lovers?" she finally managed to ask.

"Hardly!" Zevran scoffed.

She felt an odd relief.

"We just ravished each other— rough and dirty stuff," Zevran completed, amusedly.

Jayne's eyes widened. For all his flirtatiousness and innuendo around women, she had never expected him to prefer to lie with men.

_This makes things infinitely easier, _she thought.

_So why am I feeling so disappointed?_

"Does it bother you?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"That I enjoy taking my pleasure with men, as well?"

_As well?_

"What you choose to do with whomever you please is no business of mine," she replied.

"Maybe I'd like it to be," he said, leaning in closer to her.

Jayne furrowed her brow even further, ignoring his proximity.

"So when you say you 'take your pleasure with men, as well,' do you mean that you ALSO enjoy women?" she blurted out confusedly.

Zevran sat up again, with a deep sigh of resignation.

"Do I need to draw you pictures?"

"I am just trying to understand."

"I enjoy both," he stated. "The opportunities to enjoy pleasure are so rare and life so uncertain. I never take anything for granted. I seize the chance whenever it offers itself in a pleasant way. Sometimes it is in the guise of a delightful woman; others times it is personified in a strong man. Skill is skill— the end result is the same," he said, almost defiantly. "Is that a problem?"

"No," she replied pensively. "You love who you love."

"Who is talking about love?" Zevran wondered.

"You…Nurio…"

He laughed.

"That was not love— it was everything else, but _not_ love!"

"Oh."

"Oh, what?" he persisted.

"You make it sound so…" she struggled to find the word she needed.

"What do you mean?"

"Empty. Haven't you ever felt more than a passing affection for any of your conquests?" she asked, almost timidly.

He remained in silence and she was afraid she had said something inappropriate.

"I…I don't…Look, I am an assassin-for-hire, bound for life to a brotherhood of murderers and thieves…I've been taught not to mix any personal feelings with work and I have seen how blurring those boundaries can lead to disaster. What would you have me do, my dear Warden? Settle down with a little wife in a cozy cottage on the Antivan coast and have her kiss me on the cheek as she sees me off in the morning? 'Have a good day, Zevran! Don't get too much blood on your clothes now!'" he said with slight exasperation. "As far as planning for the future goes, I was never given any choice, so I don't nurture any hopes. In fact, I never did— I was well aware that my life could be forfeit anytime I was assigned a contract."

Jayne stared at the ceiling of her tent.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. It is how it is."

"No, you don't understand," she said, the grief welling up inside her. "I know what you mean. I have no idea what the future will bring me either. My life had been planned out for me since I was born— I could never have imagined otherwise, until everything was pulled out from beneath me. Now I am one of only two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden and the plight of the entire country is in our hands to resolve…a country that hunts us even as we try to save it. I can't think of a future, either. Nothing seems certain, except death."

She could hear him breathing.

"Then make peace with it," he said. "It comes to us all, sooner or later. Live well, always," he insisted. "Don't deny yourself. Take your pleasure whenever the opportunity presents itself."

"But you may end up hurting others if you go through life that way…Just taking and taking…" her voice trailed off.

"You hurt no one if you are honest," he explained. "If two people consent to giving each other pleasure without any further expectations, how can it be a bad thing?"

"What if someone starts wanting something more?"

"Something more like what? Exclusivity? Constancy?"

"Why are we having this conversation?"

She was clearly irritated.

"I don't know! One moment I was telling you a great story about Nurio, which I was reminded of and only told you because you were both clumsy enough to bump your heads, and the next thing I know, you have Nurio and me professing undying love for each other. Sometimes you just need to surrender to your desires and curiosity for no other reason than to have a good time."

She could see him faintly in the dark, his face only slightly visible in the weak glint of firelight against the heavy tent walls. He leaned over again and whispered in her ear.

"It's when you let others in that things become more enjoyable."

His breath was warm against her cheek.

"But I should let you rest," he said offhandedly, pulling away from her.

_As if I could now! _she thought, vexed.

They heard footsteps approach the tent. Wynne and Alistair spoke in hushed voices.

"Brasca…Brasca…" he muttered. "They will not be happy to find me here," he said.

Jayne raised the blankets.

"Hide."

He slipped in beside her, along the length of her body, lying sideways, making himself as inconspicuous as possible as she arranged the pile of covers over them.

The tent flap opened and she pretended to be deeply asleep. The two observed her in silence for a few moments. She felt Zevran's fingers unexpectedly skim over the skin beneath her arm and tickle her. She stirred slightly and pretended to let out a sleepy groan. The tent flap dropped again.

"At least she is getting some rest," Wynne stated reassuringly.

"Will she be alright?" Alistair asked.

Jayne felt a pang of guilt.

"I am sure of it," she affirmed.

They heard the footsteps move farther away. Jayne lifted the blankets. Other than teasing her with his tickling, he did not touch her, and began to slide off her bedroll. He caught her puzzled expression and stopped.

"I can stay, if you wish," he said.

She held her breath. He waited for a response, his arms extended as he held still.

"Don't go," she said, in a whisper of a voice.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked seductively.

_Everything. Everything has gone to pot, _she told herself. _And all I have done is battle, battle, and fight. It has been so difficult, so miserable, so terrifying. _

She raised her hand to his face and caressed the dark swirls inked on his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into her hand.

_This is a bright light in the darkness, _she encouraged herself. She remembered what he had said. _If they were honest with each other, then it would be fine, right?_

He nuzzled the palm of her hand with his nose, his lips grazing her fingertips. He paused for a moment, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He was slender and leanly muscular. She ran her hands over his warm, bare chest, feeling an inebriating rush.

"Warden," he whispered.

"Jayne," she corrected him, slightly breathless.

"Warden," he continued. "I have a question for you."

"What is it?" she asked.

"You and Alistair are close, are you not?"

_Here it is, _she thought, warning bells tolling. _The elusive ulterior motive, at last. Of course it was all a ruse. And I was going to fall for it, the whole entire act that he didn't even have the stomach to perform to its conclusion._

She shoved him off her and sat up, adjusting her tunic.

"What about me and Alistair?" she asked, her tone harsh.

He was taken aback by her reaction.

"I am curious as to the nature of your relationship."

_Divide in detail, _she remembered someone say about war tactics, long ago_._

"Why do you want to know?"

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I've watched you and he together. I know a complication when it rears its head and threatens to bite. If this thing between you and Alistair is leading somewhere, I'll happily step aside. Complication avoided. Everyone's the happier, yes?"

_What thing?_

"Are you jealous, perchance?" she squinted.

He let out a derisive laugh.

"I make no claims upon you, nor would I _dream_ of such. You are free to pursue your fancies as you desire, and I would it have it no other way. I suspect Alistair, however, would not feel the same way. If there is to be something between you and I, to string him along would only hurt him deeply. Surely you know this is true. I am many things: a murderer, a thief, a lover— but I am no cheat. If whatever is between us cannot be honest, let it not be at all," he stated seriously.

"What are you talking about? Not a cheat? I've played Wicked Grace with you!"

"Not that kind of cheating— that's a tax on your own foolishness if you allow it to happen. I am talking about the other kind of cheating. Allow me to explain: Jealousy is an unpredictable force and I do not need any unnecessary distractions, such as worrying about Alistair turning on me at a decisive moment. So tell me, Warden, what is Alistair to you?"

"I love Alistair," she replied calmly.

Zevran stared at her stoically.

"Very well. I understand."

He seized his belongings and tugged his shirt back over his head hurriedly.

"Alistair is my best friend. He is my _brother_. If my greatest wish comes true, he will someday be _king_. I am fighting by his side, but I am also fighting for him!" she said emotionally.

Zevran threw his hands up in frustration.

"You love him! He is your best friend! Which is it?"

"Both!" she argued.

"How can it be both?"

"Don't you know anything about friendship? You can love someone and not want to…to…bed them!" she complained. "Alistair and I have been through so much together and through it all, we have counted on each other. Regardless of the outcome, we will be fighting side by side, to the bitter end."

"Is that Grey Warden speak for something more…lurid?" he asked cynically.

"Leave," she growled.

He promptly moved towards the front of the tent. As he reached for the flap, she took a deep breath.

"Zevran, you say you are a lover, but you actually know very little about love. You have only had a semblance of closeness, of warmth with all these people you have slept with. Love and lust are two entirely different things. Sometimes they go hand in hand, but sometimes they are as distinct as night and day. When you love, you are not content with just taking. When you love, you give. You give of yourself, and you do so unselfishly, because you hold the well-being and happiness of the ones you love as precious as, if not more than, your own."

He listened without facing her, his hand still, resting on the tent canvas. He shook his head.

"Warden, this is a luxury I have not experienced," he said. She picked up the hollowness in his voice. "I understand the grand gestures in a romance, but they have always appeared self serving," he mused. "Friendships have always seemed more like a maneuvering of convenient alliances to me. This whole idea is, frankly, a bit terrifying."

"What idea?"

"That you can love a friend that fiercely and loyally and expect nothing in return."

"Of all the terrifying things we have come up against so far, that should be the least horrible one," Jayne stated, huddling beneath the covers again.

Zevran turned around and contemplated her curled up figure beneath the covers.

"Perhaps for you, as you have enjoyed privileges I could never afford to indulge in my life…and profession."

"You are now otherwise employed," she retorted.

His demeanor softened.

"Ah, that I am…"

He reached over her and rearranged one of her blankets. He drew his face up to hers and searched her eyes, his lips tantalizingly close.

"I'm glad we spoke tonight. You have given me much to think about," he said gently.

She did not answer him.

_"_Good night, Warden. Get some rest and heal well."

He slipped out of the tent.

_There was no attempt on my life. No efforts to drive any wedges between Alistair and me. Quite the opposite. He only sought clarification._

She stared at the ceiling, clenching her fists and beating them into the bedroll.

_ Love and lust. _

_Right now I can't tell them apart._


	6. Chapter 6

The lump over Jayne's eye was still swollen and angrily red. Despite Wynne and Morrigan's successful efforts to ease the pain, the bruise was large and ugly. She grumbled as she tilted the tin plate to better reflect her image.

_It's as if a horn were about to burst forth. I'll be taking the Ogre's place._

"It'll look worse before it gets better," Leliana noted, dipping a hunk of stale brown bread into her fried egg's yolk.

"That seems to be a fitting motto for life these days," Jayne sighed.

Oghren came up to them, offering them a skillet filled with sizzling fried eggs, droplets of brown fat sputtering and glistening on the metal. They shook their heads and he continued his rounds among the others.

"You seem unusually gloomy today," Leliana finally ventured.

"Can I tell you something private?" Jayne asked in a low voice. Leliana leaned in discretely, wiping her mouth. "Zevran was in my tent last night."

"You and Zevran?"

"Yes," she nodded, but then stopped herself. "I mean, no."

Leliana tilted her head.

"I am afraid I don't follow."

"Let's just say that at one point he was in my bedroll."

"And?"

"And then I got mad at him. I thought he intended to do something, but I misunderstood."

Leliana dabbed at the yellow goo, dragging the bread across the plate.

"A misunderstanding?"

"Yes. A misunderstanding that made him beat a hasty retreat. I am very upset with myself," she admitted. "I may have ruined everything."

"But what is this 'everything'? What do you want from him?" Leliana munched thoughtfully.

"I want to trust him," she said.

"Trust him with what?" Leliana pressed on.

_My heart._

"The Maker never places anyone in our path who cannot teach us in our journey." Leliana added, waving to Bodhan across the camp. "Maybe you should take a chance and see? Either way, you will gain something worthwhile. And so will he, I believe."

"Why can't I just go ahead and do that? I want to…I'm not a prude."

"I see."

"I mean, I'm not _that _experienced, but I'm not a big innocent either," she concluded.

They both let their eyes wander to Alistair, who smiled back at them winsomely, a streak of yolk on his cheek.

"What do you think is holding you back?"

"I think…The whole idea of just being a roll in the hay," she said quietly. "It bothers me to think I'll be another notch on his conquest count."

"What would you rather be to him?"

"I don't know," she bent her head down and clasped her hands over her neck. "I think I might…I don't know!… Care about him?"

"I see!…You want his body AND his heart," Leliana turned to her, a glint in her eye.

Jayne raised her head again, dismay on her face.

"Ah," she groaned. "When you put it that way…"

"That looks terrible," Morrigan interrupted, pointing at her forehead as she walked by.

"And a good morning to you!" Jayne called out, annoyed.

She huffed and rubbed her face.

"Leliana, I am a mess. I don't have the stamina to agonize over this when we are facing a damned Blight."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Leliana scraped her plate clean with the last chunk of bread. Jayne waited. "I think that you have to accept you have no control over these feelings…but you do have control over your actions. If it makes you happy to be with him, then take it for what it is. Love him: body and soul. Nothing is certain, there are no guarantees. You are not a stranger to risk. And right now we are all taking an immense risk…A risk you are forging through and leading us past with so much courage. Why falter in this? It is not like you, Jayne. Wouldn't it be worse if you regretted never showing him how you feel? For what purpose?" she asked.

Jayne pondered her words. Leliana cheerfully pat her on the back and walked towards the bucket near the cart, to wash her plate, passing by Zevran as he made his way to Jayne.

"Good morning!" she smiled exaggeratedly.

Once he reached Jayne, he stood over her, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"What is wrong with Leliana?"

She pursed her lips tightly.

"Because she looks like the cat who ate the canary right now."

He squatted down and inspected the bump on her forehead.

"Aia," he winced. "That's got to hurt, no?"

"Finish up! We need to take down the tents. We move north for several miles and then enter the forest at the east," Alistair announced to everyone.

"Zevran, there is something I need to tell you."

_Before I lose my nerve, before I dissuade myself._

He shifted his gaze back to her.

"Alistair and I are friends. I won't say 'only' friends, because I meant everything I said about him last night. But I am not stringing anyone along. I'm not fickle or capricious. I'm no cheater, either."

He brushed his hand over her head tenderly.

"I know you aren't," he said. "There is a saying in Antiva: 'When the fisherman returns home with a big catch, his wife is suspicious.'"

She squinted, the significance of the saying eluding her.

"What does it mean?"

"Just this: it seemed too good to be truly happening," he murmured.

Jayne looked at him in amazement.

_Surely more enticing and enthralling conquests had passed through his arms?_

"Did you at least get some rest last night?"

She shook her head.

"Me neither," he said. "I stayed up thinking and thinking…"

"I hope it didn't hurt too much," she teased.

"Not the things I was thinking about…quite the opposite," he said mischievously.

"Then…perhaps you could share your thoughts with me."

She sought his eyes. He arched his eyebrows.

"I would love to exchange some of my thoughts with you later on…" he suggested.

"It'll be an exciting debate."

"Mmm. I can't wait to be enlightened."

His lips parted in a wide grin. He glimpsed around them to check for onlookers, and leaned in, pecking her lightly on the ear before stepping away.

"Nothing to see here!" he announced to Sten, who was walking by with several tent poles.

He grunted, indifferently.


	7. Chapter 7

"These aren't like any woods I've ever seen," Jayne said as they passed a pair of broken columns standing guard over a mound of rubble. Weeds, saplings, and moss poked between the cracks of the once imposing ruins.

"Tevinter," Morrigan pointed. They had entrusted her with guiding them through the forest, as she, raised in the Korcari, was the only one who had experience trekking through such wilderness.

"I don't like it," Oghren muttered, looking back towards the trail they had been following.

They had left Bodhan, Sandal, Wynne, Rune, and Sten behind at the forest's edge, while they scouted the area for any signs of the Dalish. So far they had taken a circuitous route that revealed little more than eerie mist-covered woods, overgrown paths, and now the ruins.

Morrigan crouched down and brushed her hand over the ground before her.

"These tracks are fresh," she declared, turning back to them.

"Animal?" Alistair wondered.

"Dinner?" Oghren hoped.

"I'm not sure." Morrigan examined the slight indentations closer. Jayne peered over her and thought that she would never have realized those were tracks; to her untrained eyes, they looked like part of the rough, unkempt path. "They look almost like animal tracks, except that something isn't quite right— animals can't place weight on the balls of the feet they don't have," she puzzled.

Jayne exchanged uneasy glances with Alistair.

_What now, Maker?_

"It is getting dark," Leliana remarked. "We should head back."

"Perhaps we should set camp near that pond we passed on our way down here. Bodhan can guide the cart that far," Alistair suggested.

"Not too close, though," Morrigan cautioned. "It's probably a drinking hole for the animals in the area. Whatever animals these may be…"

Zevran slapped his neck for the hundredth time, an expression of discomfort and disgust on his face.

"I am all for getting out of here. I'm getting eaten alive—"

"—and not in the 'good' way," Alistair completed.

"Alistair! I'm so proud! I'm rubbing off on you!" he cheered.

"Ugh! Not a chance," he rolled his eyes. "I was just anticipating what you would say."

Oghren chuckled jovially at the exchange, but fell silent once he realized all were quiet around him.

"Listen," Morrigan murmured.

They held still. No birds chirping, no rustling over the carpet of dry leaves around them, no activity whatsoever.

"Let's go," she added, turning back towards the trail.

They returned to the others swiftly and managed to guide the cart to a narrow clearing, past which it would no longer manage to go. Beyond that spot, the forest became thicker and more foreboding.

"Any signs of the Dalish?" Wynne inquired.

Alistair frowned.

"No."

They had more or less another hour of daylight. She had been on the road long enough to have learned how to measure the day by the sun, the sky, and the ebbing and flowing of her own Tainted blood. The Taint became more pronounced as the day faded. Once, a lifetime ago, she had measured the day's length by the daily routines at Highever: the milkmaids, the shepherds, the farmers… No longer.

"I'll be back shortly," she announced, pulling a cloth out of her pack.

She removed her breastplate and most of her armor and left them on the ground. She twirled her straight brown hair into a secure bun. Along with a change of clothes she brought her one luxury: a small stone container holding a doughy wad of soap, almost all gone. It resembled something Rune would retch up, but it smelled heavenly.

She told herself rationally that she just needed to rinse out the grime— miles of sweat and dust clinging to her arms and legs, leaving a sooty line of dirt between her skin and her armor.

_Who am I fooling? I'm washing up for Zevran, should he make good on his braggadocio, _came the irritating thought.

She stole a glance at the elf, in conversation with Bodhan, gesticulating dramatically. She swopped down and grabbed her sword, turning towards the dusky woods.

The pond was downhill from their camp. She came upon it as the last rays of sunlight struck the water, the slight breeze rippling its surface and adorning it with pinpoints of yellow and orange leaves from the shedding trees hanging over the margins.

_Let's make this quick._

She laid down the sword by her feet, pulled her undershirt off, and stepped out of her breeches and undergarments. She crouched sideways into the water, keeping an eye on the pond, and the other on the shore, her sword at arm's reach. Her toes sank into the silty bottom, cool and mushy against her skin. The water was frigid, but invigorating, she thought, as she poured handfuls over her shoulders, down her back. She caught her reflection wavering on the surface before her. The bruise was there still, of course, but she made note of the white jagged scar running down from her chest. _It's like one of those hideous centipedes, _she thought, rubbing her hand over the toughened skin. That had been a souvenir from the battle at Ostagar. How Flemeth had managed to suture her entrails back in properly, she'd never know. Across her back were smaller scars— stab wounds from that first horrific attack at Highever. She'd been unarmed and turned to grab her weapon when Howe's soldier tried to hack at her.

_Last thing the coward ever did, _she thought angrily.

She took a dab of soap from the container, mixed it with some water, and lathered it over her body. The odor of jasmine permeated her fingers and skin as she rinsed off. Shifting her weight slightly, she rinsed her face and prepared to rise and dry off. As she removed her hands from her face, she felt the sharp edge of a sword against her neck.

"Do not move," the voice commanded.

_I am an idiot, _Jayne thought, shivering, beads of water dripping off her nose.

She saw a young man emerge from behind the cluster of trees at the end of the shore. He was shorter than she, sinewy and strong. He held a bow with an arrow pointed straight at her and his face, inked with dark markings, was calm and expressionless. Pale and fair haired, his eyes gleamed with a familiar transparency. An elf. The blade tapped her beneath the chin and she rose slowly, wondering what were the chances she could drag her sword over with her feet before she was either stabbed or pierced.

_Not good, _she decided.

"I am unarmed," she stated calmly.

"You are on our land."

"I am not interested in stirring up any trouble. My companions and I are seeking the Dalish."

She raised her eyes warily to the elf pointing the arrow at her. His gaze was affixed to her face.

A steady hand pushed her forward slightly.

"Turn around."

A light-haired woman stood before her, the sword's tip pointing at her chest.

"What do you want with the Dalish?" she asked.

"I wish to speak to your Keeper," she stated.

"Whatever about?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"I come to ask your Keeper to honor a treaty."

"What treaty? We cannot be expected to honor any treaties when you Shems cannot be bothered to uphold your—"

"I am a Grey Warden," Jayne said.

_A naked and cold Grey Warden. _

The woman signaled to her companion.

"Is this truth?"

"I have come with another Grey Warden. He and I have traveled here because we need aid from your people."

"We can barely aid ourselves," the woman said.

"A Blight threatens us all," Jayne continued.

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"Yes…all signs point to it. We have encountered a few stray bands of Darkspawn lurking in the forest…"

She stopped and spoke to her companion in her tongue, the words smooth and silvery. Jayne's teeth were chattering.

"Here— dry yourself off and lead us to your camp."

The man handed her the cloth and she gratefully wrapped it around herself, only to realize that it was still too short and small. She moved to reach for her clothes, but the woman stopped her.

"Halt! We will take those for you," she said curtly. "You can have them once we verify you are who you claim to be. Come!"

Jayne walked through the forest barefoot, her cloth wrapped strategically around her hips, her folded arms embracing her chest. The man walked in front of her, slightly beyond reach, carrying her sword and other belongings. Behind her, the woman kept her blade pointed at her back. The man shouted a few words towards the trees behind them, and almost immediately, three others emerged, bows and hunting sacks slung across their backs.

Daylight had faded almost completely. The last rays of light cast long, twisted shadows around them. Ahead, at a short distance, she could see the campfire.

_If this doesn't become an incident, it will be a miracle._

As she feared would happen, Rune started to bark and growl. When they emerged from the woods into the clearing, all arrows were pointing at their camp and she was thrust forward, a sword vertically poised against her neck. Rune crouched down on his front legs as if to spring forward. Alistair unsheathed his sword and Morrigan reached for her staff.

"Stand down!" Jayne ordered loudly. "Rune!" she commanded forcefully.

The Mabari sat, whining and licking his muzzle restlessly. All froze where they were. She noticed Zevran standing slightly apart from the others, his hands poised over his daggers, eyes downcast and calculating. "There will be no bloodshed here, whatsoever!" she declared, to her companions as well as the Dalish. "We have…entered Dalish land. They wish to verify our claims." She trembled, her skin feeling clammy to her own touch. "Alistair, show them the treaty."

Alistair placed his sword down, and with palms upturned, facing the Dalish patrol, backed away slowly towards his pack. He reached in for the scrolls they had secured in a scribe's traveling roll. He walked to the edge of the campfire and one of the soldiers rushed forward and seized the roll from his hands. He removed the scrolls and unfurled them carefully, bringing them to the woman. After several minutes, the blade fell away from her neck.

She faced Jayne again and nodded respectfully.

"I am Mithra," she said. "I wish we could have extended you a proper Dalish welcome, Grey Wardens, but we must exercise caution at this time."

By this point, the forest was dark. Stars peeked out in the sky above.

One of her men said something, concern in his voice, while pointing at an agitated Rune.

"It is only a Mabari," she said, staring at him. "The forest is not safe after dark. May we make camp with you tonight? We will take you to our Keeper in the morning," the woman announced.

They all exchanged mistrustful glances. The elf who had been carrying her belongings returned her bundle. She gratefully seized her clothes and sword, clutching the armful against her bare skin.

"Let us make amends," Mithra said, gesturing to her soldiers. "We were on patrol when we came across you…but we had also managed to hunt some game earlier. We can share our bounty with you."

The soldiers plunked down four large feathered birds on the ground before them. Oghren rubbed his hands excitedly. Hardened glares gave way to expressions of delight.

"I like you people already," he stated earnestly.

The camp had suddenly acquired a slightly festive mood as preparations for dinner were underway. Jayne retreated to her tent and quickly put on her dry clothes. She heard a few slaps on the tent walls.

"Warden!" came the melodious voice.

"I'll be right out," she announced hurriedly. She realized with a pang of regret that the little stone soap container was gone.

"Are you decent?" Zevran asked.

"Yes, I'm dressed."

"You can still be dressed and be indecent," he explained, his head poking through the entrance. "One can always hope."

He bent down and entered the tent, sitting down in a corner.

"Are you unharmed?" he asked.

"I'm freezing, but fine, otherwise."

"So you need to tell me," he said, expectantly.

"What?"

"How did you manage to end up captured by a Dalish patrol… completely naked? I am impressed! I thought that kind of thing only happened to me!"

Jayne rubbed her forehead.

"I went down to the pond to wash off—" she stopped once she saw Zevran's confused expression.

"Wait, wait…I am having trouble understanding all these words! Could you act it out for me, instead?" he asked coyly. "I'll play the part of the big, bad, Dalish patrol, yes?" he smiled, pulling out the cloth she had been wearing earlier from behind his back. Jayne tried to contain a laugh as she grabbed it from his hand and flung it over her head. "No?" he asked, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. I'll be the helpless Grey Warden: 'Oh, please, don't tie me up!'" he cried, offering her his wrists.

Jayne finally laughed openly. He stopped smiling suddenly, though, reaching for her cheek and examining her face.

"Your lips are blue."

He surveyed the tent quickly and dragged a blanket out of her pack.

"To the campfire— now," he said, taking her hand.

Outside, the fire roared, sparking brightly against the night sky. The warmth was welcome. At first, all were quiet, but as the evening progressed, and stomaches were filled, and Oghren, in a fit of generosity, passed around a large tankard filled with ale, conversation flowed more congenially. Leliana brought out her lute and even Sten appeared somewhat content as he slipped Rune his leftover bones. Leliana leaned over to them.

"Zevran— these are your people! Aren't you excited at all?" she whispered.

He sucked on a tooth and turned to the Dalish group sitting across from them.

"Are any of you Antivan Crows?" he inquired.

They looked at each other confusedly.

"Not my people," he shrugged.


	8. Chapter 8

"Allow me to escort you back to your tent, Warden," Zevran offered.

"Her tent is two steps away!" Alistair protested, as he tossed more wood into the fire.

"We are in unfamiliar territory. The terrain," he indicated, pointing at a groggy Oghren sprawled on the ground before them, "hostile…and rather terrifying. Warden," he stated with exaggerated respect, stepping aside and allowing her to pass.

A slight nervousness overcame her as they approached her tent.

"I will inspect the inside for any hidden threats," he announced in an overly solicitous tone.

A mere seconds later he peeked out.

"No unconscious drunken dwarves inside, milady. It is safe to enter."

Inside her tent she noticed he had spread out her blankets across the ground. He extended his hand to her, guiding her to a spot next to him. She grinned weakly. They sat beside each other in silence, but she had the impression he was enjoying her discomfort.

"Warden, why so tense?"

_I feel dizzy. _

"I can offer you a massage," he said playfully. "I know you like my hands…"

_Thank the Maker for the cover of night. _

She knew, from the sting in her cheeks, that she was blushing. He moved behind her and knelt, gathering her hair off her back and draping it over her shoulder. He placed his hands over her shoulders and unexpectedly dug his thumbs between her shoulder blades. She arched her back from the sudden jolt of pain.

"So tight," he chided her, not stopping.

He continued his rhythmic kneading, his touch vigorous and precise. Her muscles gradually loosened and a pleasant languor settled into her limbs.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"You _are_ good," she admitted.

He stopped.

"I am better than _good,_" he complained, as if gravely offended. "These are skills passed down from generation to generation of the most talented Antivan courtesans. Small fortunes are gladly surrendered in exchange for such exquisite pleasure—"

"Less talking, more massaging." She wiggled her shoulders expectantly at him.

"I have been challenged," he asserted solemnly. "Now I must give you… the full treatment."

"What's that?" she marveled, attempting to turn around.

Instead of a reply, his lips brushed the nape of her neck, his breath warm, tracing a path to her ear. He encircled her waist with his sturdy arms.

"May I?" he whispered in her ear.

Slightly dazed, she nodded.

He tugged at her tunic, his hands gathering up the cloth, grazing ever-so-slightly over her breasts, before pulling it off.

"You do understand that this is no longer a massage," he murmured archly.

"Am I _that_ daft?" she complained, turning to face him.

_Enough of this sidestepping._

She threw her arms around his neck, embracing him so suddenly and forcefully he lost his balance and they toppled down into the blankets. He chuckled lightly, clasping her over his chest.

_He is so beautiful, _she thought.

She leaned over and kissed his lips tentatively. She reached her hands beneath his shirt, peeling it off him, his chest smooth and taut beneath her fingertips. His full lips curled in a wicked smirk and his eyes appraised her lustily. He grasped her, pulling her back down over him, her skin naked against his. He sought her mouth, kissing her seductively, slowly, expertly teasing her with a flick of his tongue over her parted lips. She gasped, his touch sending ripples of arousal through her body.

_Ancient, unintelligible words hissed menacingly from within. The malevolent presence quickened inside her,_ _flooding her ears, darkening her thoughts. _

She always struggled to explain to the others what it was like, but Alistair had described it best: a rotting stench they felt rather than smelled.

She broke off their embrace abruptly. Zevran sat up immediately, searching her face in the dark.

"Warden?"

She reached for her tunic in the darkness, pulling it back over her head and felt the ground for her sword. He unquestioningly followed her lead, swiftly dressing himself. As they emerged from the tent, she saw Alistair run towards them.

"How many?" she asked.

"A band— scouts most likely. Heading up this way," he gestured towards the dark woods ahead.

"I'll warn the others," Zevran announced, rushing away.

They made their way to the edge of the camp, facing the forest, listening into the night. Faint sounds resounded in the distance. Mithra appeared beside them.

"My soldiers are ready, Wardens."

Jayne turned to see the elves standing next to each other, bowstrings nocked to their arrows, prepared to shoot. In the background, a flurry of activity unfurled as the others hurried to gather their armor and weapons.

"Stand back slightly and leave enough space between each other," she ordered the archers. "Shoot the attackers the moment they break past the trees and keep retreating. We will charge between your line and cut down the survivors," she explained.

Alistair's eyes had grown completely black.

_As have mine, _she realized.

The Darkspawn inched closer. They positioned themselves behind the archers, ready to burst forward, listening for signs of the incoming attack.

"Jayne, I sense something-" Wynne cautioned behind her.

_Magic? _

Just as she and Alistair could perceive Darkspawn approach, Wynne and Morrigan sensed magic anytime it emanated nearby.

"An Emissary?" she asked, thinking of the fallen mages the Taint corrupted.

"No!" Morrigan shook her head, eyes focused ahead. "It's not an Emissary… or mage, or sorcerer of any kind."

"It _is_ different. I thought so! A trace of…something else… a spell of sorts," she turned to Morrigan, intrigued.

"A malediction," Morrigan stated, uneasily.

Not too far away, a loud commotion broke loose. They recognized the guttural shrieks of the Darkspawn, but along with those were other, unfamiliar noises- deep, rumbling growls that grew in viciousness. A brutal battle raged in the depths of the forest, piercing screeches echoing back to their camp. Rune's hackles were raised and he remained close to her. They stood expectantly, tensely, vigilant for any signs of movement, for attackers to emerge from the woods and dash towards them. The uproar eventually moved farther away from their camp, growing fainter with each passing moment until an uneasy quietness settled over the wilderness. The brief stillness was broken by a long, piercing howl, further into the forest.

The swirling, sickening blackness that possessed her lifted gradually. She noticed Alistair did not sense it anymore either, his eyes clear and bright once more.

"What happened?" He was baffled. "This is unusual."

"It's the forest…It isn't safe. Especially at night," Mithra explained.

"What was that out there?" Jayne asked.

"There are dangerous creatures wandering and hunting in these woods." Mithra signaled to her soldiers and they retreated into the camp.

"I have witnessed much that could be deemed as absurd or impossible, but I have never heard of any ordinary wildlife successfully defeating a band of Darkspawn. I believe you owe us a better explanation than that," Jayne persisted, following her.

"I am not at liberty to discuss this matter with you. Our Keeper can tell you…tomorrow. In the meantime, if I could have a word with you, Wardens. In private," she requested.

Mithra and Alistair filed into his tent. As Jayne was about to enter it, she noticed Zevran. She cast him a despondent glance.

_Another missed chance._

He shrugged, a rueful grin on his lips, before wandering back alone to his tent.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you for the encouraging support, via thoughtful reviews, favorites, and messages! What started as a one shot is quickly turning into a mini-epic... Chapter 8 has been fixed. Apologies for the confusion...Editing is a virtue. Happy reading!**

"Would it be too much to ask that for once, when we show up to remind people on making good on their promises, that they simply say, 'Yes, of course' so we could be on our way?" Alistair complained to Jayne.

They huddled together as they waited for the Dalish Keeper to welcome them. Mithra had been inside the aravel for the better part of half an hour as they lingered outside, observing the Dalish camp's activity. The others hadn't been allowed farther inside and sat or paced around in varying degrees of impatience just inside the camp's entrance.

"How many do you think they have to send to battle?" Jayne wondered.

"It's hard to say," Alistair muttered, trying to survey the camp behind them. Numerous aravels aligned a path towards a downward slope. "The Dalish tend to break up their camps to ensure their survival. This is one of the largest known settlements," he explained. "And who knows how many more settlements and clans they are able to summon?"

"I feel like we are wasting time," she whispered impatiently, leaning into him.

"It is amazing that anything functions at all in Ferelden," he agreed. "It sounds like the Blight has been a godsend; otherwise, I do not see how those problems would have been solved."

"And haven't we had to solve it all…" she sighed.

Circle of Magi facing a Rite of Annulment because of rampant possessions... Dwarves with no definitive ruler... A comatose Arl under the thrall of magic gone awry…The only remedy? A pinch of Andraste's ashes! In each situation she had tried her best to act justly and respectfully. In Arl Eamon's case, they had even saved his family from being sacrificed to the demonic forces that threatened to engulf them. Remembering the haughty Arlessa, Isolde, who barely acknowledged them, even after they saved her son, made Jayne cross her arms stiffly.

"What could possibly be taking so long?"

"Perhaps they all fled through the back door of the aravel," Alistair chuckled.

A door above them swung open and Mithra climbed down the steps.

"Keeper Zathrian will speak to you now."

Alistair smiled politely and pulled himself into the aravel. Jayne followed closely behind, just in time to see him hit his forehead on a wooden beam.

"Careful," a deep voice resonated deeper inside. "The ceilings are low in here."

The inside of the aravel was of beautifully carved wood. The ceiling was painted delicately in sylvan motifs, echoing the swirls and etchings in the woodwork. At the entrance a small wood-burning stove provided heat beneath a built-in cupboard. Further inside, the sides of the aravel's interior contained two narrow window benches facing each other. At the very end, facing the door, was what appeared to be a small alcove where pillows and blankets had been neatly arranged. Standing before it, a tall bald-headed man, his face covered in elaborately scrolled etchings, welcomed them.

"I am Keeper Zathrian," he explained. He indicated a younger woman standing beside him. "This is my First, Lenaya."

The Keeper invited them to sit and talk, apologizing for the way they had been welcomed.

"I am aware of the treaty and would have you know that the Dalish have always held the Grey Wardens in the highest regard: unlike other peoples we have had to deal with, you have always acted fairly and honestly. We would like to honor the treaty."

Alistair's eyes widened in surprise. Even Jayne barely suppressed a cheer.

"However…" the Keeper continued warily.

Alistair sat heavily on the window seat, thinly veiled irritation on his face. Jayne wasn't faring much better.

_Maker, you do try us._


	10. Chapter 10

"We'll be making camp here," Alistair announced.

Everyone began to groan or protest. She did not envy Alistair. They had determined who would deliver the news on the way out of the Keeper's aravel. One of the elves who had escorted them back to the Dalish camp earlier stood guard at the entrance. Jayne approached him.

"Could you please direct us to where we should pitch our camp?"

"Shemlens are not allowed in our camp," he retorted curtly, before facing ahead once more.

Jayne tilted her head at him.

"But your Keeper just—"

"This way, Wardens," Mithra interrupted, walking up behind them.

She shot the man a withering glance before leading them up the small path past the aravels.

"We are not used to having visitors…Much less visitors who are not Dalish," she stated.

Zevran appeared indifferent, Jayne noticed, out of the corner of her eye.

"But the Keeper has requested that you stay among us," she added.

Glum faces surveyed the small plot they had been confined to.

"I don't particularly care to be in such close proximity to everyone," Morrigan remarked.

"The feeling is mutual," Alistair replied.

"I don't see the sense in remaining here," Sten noted.

"I did not like having to leave my cart behind," Bodhan added.

A large portion of the day had been devoted to leading the blessed cart as close to the Dalish camp as possible and then emptying it of everything valuable or of use, making everyone's packs and loads heavier and cumbersome. Bodhan never complained, but she could see his patience straining, as he held his mare's reigns.

"Your cart and my barrel of ale," Oghren agreed, peeved.

"It's a gloomy place," Wynne said. "It is as if the air itself were poisoned."

"I, for one, look forward to listening to their songs," Leliana offered, brightly.

"Right. Well…set camp for the night," Alistair ordered.

His tone was tired and terse. Jayne led the way, dropping her belongings on the ground and unfurling the tightly rolled canvas. The others watched her as she slowly went about the dull task. She felt indifferent to their stares; she was as frustrated as they were. Werewolves, the Keeper had told Alistair and her, had been attacking and infecting the Dalish. Half human, half beast, they had been the ones to ambush the band of Darkspawn so brutally. She was not ready to tell her group that they would be making incursions into the forest to find and kill the werewolves' leader and end the mysterious plague. There was something else, too— something that bothered her about the Keeper: it was how he insisted on the fact there was no cure for the illness other than slaughtering the werewolves… Yet, he provided no evidence to support his claim.

"But surely, if they are part human, there must be some way to reason, to appeal to their humanity," she had reasoned.

"No!" the Keeper interjected. "They are corrupted beyond redemption. You must believe me!"

_You have a real problem with authority, Pup, _her father had always told her, sometimes cautiously, other times amusedly. _Make sure it serves you well._

"Alistair." She walked up to him, as he stretched out the canvas for his own tent. "I think we need to confer with Wynne and Morrigan later on."

"Whatever about?" he wondered.

"We need them to apply their knowledge to a matter that is bothering me."

Alistair nodded distractedly as one of the tent stakes sprung out of the ground. Rune began to bark loudly and she noticed two elves approach their group.

"Our First has invited you to share the evening meal with us," one of them announced, avoiding making eye contact with any of them.

"Yes. Of course," Jayne told them. "We would be honored to."

Despite her polite reply, the elves did not acknowledge her response. One of the elves, a robust man with a bow slung over his back, asked Zevran a question in their language.

"Are you speaking to me?" Zevran asked.

The man repeated his words.

"I do not speak your language," he stated coolly.

"_Our_ language. You are an elf, are you not?"

"How observant," he responded insolently.

"It is shameful how there are those of us who would turn their backs on their own people, on their own culture."

"Forgive me, you are absolutely right. I have not been exactly forthcoming with you. I _do_ know some Dalish— this is something I was often called by _our_ kind, as a boy, in Antiva City," he paused, clearing his throat. "Len'alas lath'din," he said clearly and pointedly.

The elves' expressions became somber and one convinced the other to walk away, under Zevran's defiant stare. They had walked a sufficient distance before Zevran turned his back to all of them and hurled his pack violently into the tent, disappearing behind the flaps.

"What was that all about?" Alistair wondered.

Jayne fought the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He prized his levelheadedness in conflict, his calculating calm in desperate situations. She suspected he would not be in the best of moods after that display.


	11. Chapter 11

"We need your expertise," Jayne said to both Morrigan and Wynne, under Alistair's watchful gaze.

They had been invited to sit among the Dalish, but other than the Dalish First, Lenaya, and an elf named Sarel, who had been telling tales to the younger elves throughout their dinner, no one had expressed interest in starting conversation with their group. The Dalish had eaten quietly, expressing deep interest in Sarel's stories, or staring into the fire. Every once in a while, she would catch a curious stare or a discrete glare. Zevran had eventually come down to join them, but remained slightly apart from everyone, indulging a taciturn silence. Leliana had been the only one to brave the invisible divide. She asked Sarel questions and seized a seat beside him, once the children had been summoned away. He was talkative and fairly congenial, although she could sense a subtle bite to much of what he had to say. His stories all narrated the past greatness of his people, but with continuous references to how the fall of the Dales had been caused mainly by betrayals perpetrated by humans. Jayne found herself biting her tongue, for she knew very well that Sarel was not lying. She felt, though, that she did not deserve to be on the receiving end of so much resentment and was confused as to how to respond without insulting him and making their precarious situation worse. Sten, surprisingly, challenged Sarel's accounts by questioning him about the Dalish people's response to those betrayals. Sarel engaged him.

"Oh, I am certain we played a part in our downfall. We believed that the Shemlen would not revoke their prophet's gift so lightly. We were wrong. They took our lands, forcing us to abandon our gods and live as beggars in Shemlen cities," he responded.

"You should have fought. You should have fought to the last of you. Better that than to submit," Sten stated dryly.

"Oh? Is it not the Qunari way to force others to submit? Surely that would not be your advice to my people were they attacked by the mighty Qunari."

_Again with the cynical graciousness_, Jayne thought, taking a deep breath.

"That would be different. The Qunari would improve your people. The humans have improved nothing," Sten responded matter-of-factually.

_Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sten, _she noted with great annoyance.

But then again, hadn't she and Alistair just been griping about the complete mess Ferelden had already cast itself in without aid from the Archdemon?

"Perhaps. Even so, many of us did fight. We fought and we lost."

And that concluded all conversation for a while. Jayne interrupted her discussion with the mages when she noticed an elf heading towards Zevran; it was the same archer who had invited them down earlier, moving swiftly and purposefully. She tensed up as he stopped before Zevran, who despite remaining relaxed as he sprawled out before the fire, measured him with an icy stare.

"I wish to tell you I am sorry for my words earlier," the archer said, to Jayne's surprise,

Across from them, Lenaya looked on, approvingly.

"Abelas," the elf said, with formal contrition, before turning away.

Zevran observed him walk towards the aravels and then shrugged, unimpressed.

She turned back to Wynne and Morrigan.

"You mentioned you sensed something strange before the attack last night."

They huddled in closer, conspiratorially.

"Well, it was magic, definitely," Wynne whispered, "but nothing I recognize. It is a spell… one that appears to have permeated this region…and evolved. It is very old— there are familiar elements to it— yet, it feels strange and foreign."

"That's because it is a _curse_," Morrigan insisted. "It is not Blood Magic; it is Elemental Spirit Magic."

"That's Blood Magic," Wynne countered, unconvinced.

"Yes, you would think so…but Elemental Spirit Magic does not require one to consort with entities from the Fade," Morrigan explained.

"All entities are connected to the Fade, in some shape or other," Wynne pointed out.

Morrigan shook her head, disagreeing.

"There are ancient beings who make their dwelling in places—forests, rivers, lakes, mountains… that become infused with power. A skillful practitioner of magic can evoke the being into spirit form."

"Still sounds like Blood Magic to me," Wynne sniffed.

"You would be wrong," she said bluntly.

"The question of what it should be called will have to remain unsolved for the moment," Jayne interrupted. "Right now I need you to decipher what the terms of this curse are. Who it binds… and possibly, who cast it," she requested. "Morrigan, I will need you to come with us tomorrow. You are familiar with…the less traditional branches of magic," she said carefully, so as not to insult Wynne. "Wynne, they have a few members of their clan who have been afflicted by this plague. I offered your healing expertise to their Keeper, and he has welcomed it. While you tend to the sick, I need you to examine them for any signs that may provide us with greater knowledge of what we are facing."

The women agreed, sitting back again once Leliana began strumming a melody on Sarel's lute. Sarel complimented her skill, and she smiled brightly, in her sweet, childlike manner.

_Leliana has been betrayed by humans, too. She fights her own internal battles, a sinister past, despite her kind and sensitive nature. All of us here have suffered some kind of betrayal. That is how it is. Humans betray humans, why wouldn't they extend the same treatment to Dwarves, Dalish, and Qunari?_ she wondered. _Why not simply presume that trust should be earned, not given? Why expect that all humans be the same? _she thought frustratedly. _Had the Dalish been that innocent? That pure? _

She sought out those translucent gold eyes that fascinated her so much. Zevran appeared lost in his own thoughts, somewhere far away, beyond her reach. She excused herself and rose, walking towards him. He observed her as she approached, a serene expression on his face.

"Hello, Warden."

"You and I have to talk right now," she said, pointing back to their camp.

"We do?" He sat up, slightly more interested. "What about?" he asked provocatively.

"You," she said.

He pointed to himself, a questioning expression in his eyes. Then he pointed again, but towards his crotch, brazenly arching his eyebrows.

Jayne kicked him in the leg.

"That is so very crass."

"Such tempestuousness and fire. You treat me so roughly, and yet, I keep coming back for more…" he teased, rubbing his shin.

As they approached their small, crowded camp, they found Oghren sitting by the fire roasting some meat over the flames while Rune waited dutifully beside him. From Rune's singular focus on the skewer and constant licking of his chops, she presumed a few bits of meat had already been earned. Bodhan was speaking to Oghren about the fickleness of establishing the market value for something or other, while Sandal polished different objects from Bodhan's chest of goods with intense concentration. She sat farther away from them and Zevran settled down beside her.

"Would you tell me what is on your mind?" she inquired more gently.

He blinked at her slowly, studying her warmly for a moment. She was tempted to reach for his hand. But then he was back to his usual antics.

"Wouldn't you rather I showed you what is in my pants?" he suggested.

This time he deflected the punch aimed at his arm.

"I want to talk to you," she insisted. "Why won't you tell me what is going on? Ever since we have run into the Dalish, you have been in a very peculiar mood," she insisted.

"My apologies, Warden. I won't be any further trouble. I promise," he stated dismissively.

"It's not that!" she cried. "Why won't you talk to me without evading my questions?"

"Perhaps I feel better by not talking about it!" he retorted.

She raised her hands at him exasperatedly.

"Fine!" she exclaimed, at a loss.

"Are we done?" he asked, pushing himself up.

"Stay," she said, thinking of how to placate him. "I am very bad at this," she lamented. "I'd like to… remain by your side."

"You know you can have me anytime," he said flirtatiously.

"No…I didn't mean just…like…in that way. You are not yourself. I want to…"

_To what?_

"Be here. For you. I'm worried."

He sighed and fell back beside her.

"Why trouble yourself?" he asked.

"I cannot help it," she said, looking down at her boots.

"There is a saying in Antiva," he said, "that goes like this: 'The Crocciatori crab is always a bright green before it turns black, once plunged into boiling water."

She searched Zevran's face for a hint.

"I give up," she finally declared. "I swear, something must get lost in translation with these Antivan sayings."

He smirked and rubbed his chin.

"It just means you might think you are getting one thing, but really be in store for another. Be careful what you ask for. You may not like what you get. "

"I think you make these up," she grumbled.

At this, he laughed lightheartedly.

"These sayings have to start somewhere, no?"

He grabbed a twig near his feet and began to scratch the ground before them.

"I've always been intrigued by the Dalish," he mused. "I told you I was raised in a whorehouse before I was sold off to the Crows. What I did not tell you is that my mother was Dalish, herself."

Jayne studied him with curiosity. She had always thought that he had been the child of elves very much like the ones in the alienages throughout Ferelden.

"Her clan used to trade with merchants just outside Antiva. During one such trip, she met a woodcutter who was working near her camp. The rest, as they say, is a sad, but all-too-common story. She decided to follow him back to Antiva City and broke all ties with her clan. Of course, he was a miserable woodcutter with nowhere to even drop dead, so when he did finally contract some filthy disease, my mother found herself burdened with his debts. It was her great misfortune that she was a beautiful elf. Had she been ugly, she would have been sent to one of the workhouses, or perhaps become a lowly maid or laundress. But no— beauty commands its own currency, and she was sold to a whorehouse to pay off her dead lover's debts."

He smashed the twig into the dirt.

"Soon after, she realized she was with child— that would be me. She died giving birth; she died before she even laid eyes on me. My first victim, as it were." He paused, looking away.

"That's all I knew about her for a while," he resumed. "That she had inconveniently died, instantly making me a burden to others. But she had met someone while there— an older prostitute who ended up watching over the children at the brothel. Make no mistake, she was no motherly figure: she was as cruel as they come. But I reminded her of my mother. And my mother had apparently been the quiet sort, and this woman had mistaken that for some kind of respect…maybe even friendship…who knows? She would tell me these things about her and one day she even gave me a pair of leather gloves that had belonged to her. They were unmistakably Dalish: finely crafted, embroidered…so very soft. I do not know why she decided to give them to me, but I suspect it may have been because negotiations for my sale to the Crows were already underway. Do you know…for a few years afterwards, while I was small, until they were taken away from me, I would go somewhere I could be all by myself, and put on the gloves and pat myself on the head, pretending it was my mother's hand." He let out a sad laugh. "I used to dream that my mother's Dalish clan would come to reclaim me. But of course, they probably did not even know I existed. The only other elves I knew were like myself or living in the alienage in Antiva City. They taught me all the Dalish I would ever want to know: 'Len'alas lath'din,'" he repeated. "It means 'filthy child unloved by all.' It makes you wonder when a language has an expression for that…And so, my dear nosey Warden, you now know why I am out of sorts, as you would say, among the Dalish," he completed, a fierceness in his eyes.

"I am sorry, Zevran," she managed to say.

"You'd better not be, after bothering me so much to tell you," he scolded.

Jayne turned away and sniffed, wiping the back of her hand quickly over her eyes.

"At least I fetched a high price when I was sold to the Crows. Other children did not fare so well. Their stories are much worse. Alas, we don't have the barrel of ale for that."

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain her composure.

"Come now, your story isn't much happier."

"I'm not saying it is," she argued, finally facing him.

_But I was happy as a child. I was loved. _

The thought of Zevran, small and frightened, beaten, scorned, sold and traded around like a common, disposable thing, trying to comfort himself as he longed for his mother, broke her heart. _He hadn't been much younger than Oren, _she realized. _How can anyone do violence to a child? _she wondered, her stare hardening.

"I live to tell my story, at least," Zevran broke the silence at last.

She pondered his words before reaching over and entwining his hand in hers, tightly. She stood up and tugged his arm.

"Come to my tent."

Nearby, Bodhan stopped mid sentence.

"Time for enchantment?" Sandal wondered.

"Emm…Why don't you go get some more things to polish over there," Bodhan promptly distracted the boy as Oghren cast them a bawdy, approving grin.

_Love him: body and soul. Nothing is certain, there are no guarantees._

Leliana was right, of course. Hadn't life been telling her as much for the past months?

"I trust we are here to summon the Archdemon?" he inquired, inside the tent.

"What?" she asked confusedly.

"Every time we have tried this, disaster strikes."

She reached for him, taking his angular face in her hands and kissing him ardently.

"Here's a Fereldan saying," she said, brushing her nose against his, their breaths quickening. "It goes like this, 'Third time is a charm.'"

"Hmmm," he grinned rakishly. "We are aiming for three times in one evening? I like these Fereldan expressions!"

"Can we try to get at least one time down?" she asked, leading him to her bedroll.

"I don't think the Archdemon himself could stop me right now— nothing could," he told her in a low, husky voice, reaching beneath her shirt, his touch light and tantalizing.

She inadvertently let out a sigh and heard him chuckle softly, before his head disappeared from view underneath her tunic. His lips traced their way up from her stomach towards her breasts, provocative little kisses lingering deliciously over her skin.

A streak of defiant mischief possessed her.

"Oh, yes…Oghren!" she moaned, slightly arching her back.

He stopped immediately, pulling out his head from beneath her tunic, his fine hair disheveled, an expression of false horror on his face.

"You are an impossible, heartless woman, you know that?" he said in disbelief.

She laughed at his reaction.

"Very well, then," he declared, determinedly yanking off his shirt, tossing it across the tent, and unbuckling her belt in a smooth swoop. "You, my feisty Warden, are going to be calling out MY name in a moment."

She was about to retort when he hungrily covered her lips with his and leaned her back into the blankets. He unceremoniously unbuttoned her breeches, grazing his fingers playfully around the last button. Her breath hitched and he gazed at her with lusty, half closed eyes before his hand slipped down between the cloth and her skin. This time, she arched her back in earnest.


	12. Chapter 12

Jayne awoke with a faint clinking sound above her. Zevran was dressing himself, his back turned away. She stirred. He looked over his shoulder in surprise.

"Forgive me— I did not mean to awaken you."

"Where are you going?" she protested sleepily.

He sat down next to her, running his thumb over her cheek.

"I am going back to my tent. You will not want to deal with the looks you will get from the others if I am seen emerging from your tent tomorrow morning."

She frowned.

"I'm not concerned about that and you shouldn't be either." She sat up.

"Ah," he interjected, planting a light kiss on her forehead, "but you should. It may be none of their business, but I assure you it will affect them. Trust me on this— I have seen the best alliances fall apart because of jealousy and petty resentment."

She stared at the ground in disbelief. _That's right. We are two people who have agreed to seek our pleasure from each other. That is all this is— all I should expect —nothing more. _

His thumb brushed over her lips and he leaned in for another kiss.

"You are a beautiful woman," he whispered.

She watched him raise the tent flap, but instead of leaving, he remained still, lost in thought.

"Warden," he said, a hesitant tone in his voice. "I've a question, if I may."

"Go ahead."

He crouched down beside her.

" Well here is the thing: I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you're on and this is all very fine and well…My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with." He paused. "As a point of curiosity."

"Before or after you ravish me?" she said suggestively, folding her arms around his neck.

"The ravishing part is a given," he replied, playfully wresting her arms off him and seeking her eyes. "But one simply assumes that once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?"

"I'm not holding you to any oath," she reassured him, trying to disguise her disappointment. "You may leave whenever you want."

"Oh? I made the oath willingly, but if that's how you see it, then all the better." He spoke calmly, but she could detect a hint of surprise. "For the moment it's best I stay, considering my standing with the Crows," he muttered pensively. He raised his honey-colored eyes to her. "But let's assume that I didn't desire to leave, when the time came. What then?"

She held her breath, her heart pounding, the words catching in her throat.

_I can't say it. I'll be like every other lover who tried to cling to him. I'll scare him off forever. _

Her laughter came out shakier than she intended it to.

"I can think of a use or two for a handsome elf," she joked.

The tension appeared to fade as he smirked.

"I'm sure that I could come up with a few more, if pressed…" He rose and walked away from her. "It is good to know what my options might be. But that is for another time. For now, we have much to do, yes?"

_Werewolves, _she remembered with a groan.

"I didn't mean to evoke such unpleasant thoughts," he laughed. He lingered at the exit. "Anyway, good night, sweet Warden."

She sat in confusion as he stepped out. Had he been seeking for some reassurance? Had she understood correctly? She was left with the eerie impression that she had missed an opportunity. Something strange had just passed between them— another misunderstanding? She sighed in frustration.

_What's the right thing to do? Do I let him walk away thinking that this is just for pleasure, that he is being used? Or do I risk telling him how I truly feel and disappoint him…because this was intended to be lighthearted? _

_Blasted! _

She seized her blanket, roughly wrapping herself and peering outside.

"Zevran," she called out over the silent camp.

The firelight revealed his startled expression as he glanced back towards her, watching in surprise as she rushed to him, her hair spilling wildly over her shoulders, the blanket wrapped haphazardly over her torso, feet bare on damp grass. Before he could even speak, she buried her face in his chest and held him tightly.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head.

_I can't tell you. I can't tell you. _

His hand rubbed her back soothingly.

_I don't want to let you go. _

_"_Come," he finally said, "at this rate you are going to catch your death of a cold. And that would look pathetic on a commemorative plaque."

She couldn't move. _I like you far more than I should._

He gently steered her back to her tent.

"What's the matter?" he insisted."I will stay with you until you fall asleep. Is that alright?"

She nodded.

"You are a strange woman."

He pulled back the blankets and settled on the bedroll, beckoning her beside him with his hand.

"I thought you said I was beautiful!" she objected, easing herself next to him and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Beautiful, strange…Your wonders never cease, dear Warden…You make me, of all people, think that—" he cut himself short. He played with strands of her hair as she huddled closely to him. "The strangest thoughts…" his voice trailed off.


	13. Chapter 13

"Will you make the trade?" Bodhan asked eagerly, eyeing the finely crafted daggers and swords the Dalish merchant had set out before them.

"I have no use for these," the elf scowled, examining the wares remaining in Bodhan's chest: two pewter chalices, several Dwarven daggers, and an assortment of trinkets: necklaces, cuff bracelets, and a tangle of chains. Bodhan surveyed his goods disappointedly. He'd had a decent inventory before they had all plundered his chests for useful items during their treks. He managed a ridiculous billing list which everyone had solemnly vowed to pay off someday.

"Put it on my bill!" he'd be told, anytime one of them had found something worthwhile during one of their scavenging fits for something or another.

Jayne felt slightly guilty over it— it was the dwarf's livelihood, after all.

_But there would have been no livelihood to be had if they hadn't saved him and Sandal and allowed them to tag along. _

He tried to restock anytime he could— he had been somewhat appeased when they'd sojourned in Orzammar, succeeding in trading surface goods for Dwarven items, but it wasn't as if he had ample opportunity to display his merchandise at some busy city square. _His is a bad career choice in the middle of a Blight,_ she concluded.

Sandal pushed past her carefully, balancing two large and heavy bolts of thick fabric in his short arms. He delivered them to the elf, placing them down at his feet before waddling away.

"I also have these two fine bolts of brushed flannel," Bodhan indicated enthusiastically. He pinched the edge and rubbed the cloth between his fingers. "Very fine quality," he said, satisfied. The elf leaned over and fingered the cloth, interest in his eyes.

"It's light, but thickly woven. It'll make good layering clothing in the winter," he mused.

Bodhan smiled, pleased.

"Two bolts for four daggers and two swords then?"

The elf pursed his lips pondering the offer.

"The daggers, yes. The swords, no."

"Then one bolt for the daggers?

"The daggers are certainly more valuable than one bolt. Two bolts for the four daggers."

"Two bolts for the daggers…and one sword?" Bodhan countered.

"You are getting a good deal as it is!" the merchant said, as if insulted.

Bodhan shrugged. "I'm sorry we won't be doing business."

Bodhan waved Sandal back and began to pack away his goods. The elf continued to steal glances at the bolts of cloth.

"Two bolts for the four daggers and a regular bow!" the elf offered.

"Let me see the bow!" Bodhan raised his eyebrow.

The elf ran into his aravel.

"Bodhan, he drives a hard bargain," she commented.

"Not really. He is eager to do business."

"Really?" Jayne marveled.

"This is very typical when we bargain for our wares."

The elf came out with an armful of bows and leaned them against the side of the aravel for Bodhan to examine.

Jayne had been waiting for Alistair, Sten, and Morrigan to finish getting prepared for their scouting excursion through the forest. She had revealed to them Zathrian's request, and attempted to explain they were seeking out half human, half wolf creatures. The fact none of them balked was a testament to all the ordeals they had already endured.

Sten awaited impassively by Alistair's tent, his arms folded over his chest, as Alistair nervously attempted to shave.

"All this will succeed in accomplishing is making me maim myself," he complained as Sten stared.

"Ah, excellent, Alistair. At last an opponent you can defeat!" Zevran zinged, lying back in the grass.

Morrigan cut past them, an empty cup clenched in her hands and thrust forward as if it were a dousing stick. She appeared especially haggard and bleary-eyed.

"Behold the Wild Beauty of the Korcari!" he remarked flippantly.

"I sincerely hope you go bald," she sneered, surveying the camp. "Is there any root tea? I need some strong, black tea."

"We may be all out," Leliana replied, unsure. "Oghren, what's left in the herb satchel?"

"We better not be all out of root tea!" Morrigan stated menacingly.

"Zap…Frog time," Alistair muttered, gingerly running the razor down his cheek.

"It would be a vast improvement in your case, believe me!" Morrigan snapped. "Do we at least have biscuits left?" she asked Leliana, who had been sorting through the satchel.

She shot her an apologetic glance.

"We are down to one biscuit," she revealed, biting her lip.

"How can that be? Yesterday we still had a dozen! Who is responsible for this…this…mayhem!" she growled.

Sten cleared his throat.

"That is pitiful!" Morrigan scowled at him. "I think the only thing we have to fear from the Qunari is a thorough ransacking of all of Ferelden's bakeries!"

"Morrigan, Morrigan, you look so irresistible with your eye twitching like that…Have you ever considered that perhaps you wouldn't be so unsettled in the morning if you applied some of your energy in pursuit of more…carnal pleasures?" Zevran winked.

They all turned their heads to stare at him in disbelief.

"Perhaps you are correct. I would derive great pleasure in hanging you from the fingernails over a cliff!"

"You naughty girl! I could tell you are the kind who likes it more on the rough side."

All the others listened in frozen horror. Jayne focused her attention back at Bodhan. Behind her a bright flash of light crackled followed by the sounds of frantic scurrying.

"How DARE you use Wynne as a shield!" Morrigan accused, moments later.

"Great! Now I have gone and cut myself!" Alistair cried out. "Do we have anything to stop the bleeding, or did Sten eat that too?"

Jayne turned again to them warily, wondering if it was time to intervene.

Morrigan prepared to fire another bolt at Zevran, but he raised his hands appeasingly.

"My apologies, my fair Morrigan. Allow me to bring you the last biscuit as a peace offering," he bowed, seizing the biscuit from Leliana's hand.

He sauntered over and offered it to her. As she foolishly reached for it, he impishly pulled his hand back and slowly, theatrically, and deliberately, licked the biscuit. Morrigan inhaled deeply, her eyes two slits. Leliana actually gasped.

"I hate you all."

"I'll eat that," Sten announced, taking the biscuit.

Jayne wondered if she could persuade the Archdemon to give up on attacking Ferelden. All the evidence she needed to plead her case was animatedly squabbling behind her.

Bodhan shook the elf's hand amicably.

"'T'was a pleasure doing business with you!"

"Bodhan, if I were you, I'd stay away from them right now," she suggested, pointing over her shoulder. She wandered to the bows and examined the elegant swords on display.

"Do you mind if I try this?" she asked the elf, holding up one of the swords. Dalish smithing enjoyed a legendary reputation: Dalish swords were famous for being light and the blades sharp.

"That is an excellent sword," the elf remarked.

He went on to explain how strong it was, how it would never break in battle, and went on tediously about how the high heat in the kiln burned off all impurities in the metal melting in the crucible before the forging began, and Jayne politely listened as her eyes wandered. Her eyes alighted upon a pair of striking leather gloves. Noticing the shift in interest, the merchant did not skip a beat.

"Those are the finest gloves you will ever have! They are made of the softest leather, carefully cured in a solution made from the Tammikuu, right here in the Brecilian Forest," he stated, launching into another long-winded production tale.

Sturdy and thick, she noted, and when she turned them around, fine embroidery in dark gold adorned them: a tree with a thick trunk, its branches swirls of glimmering thread.

"That's an oak tree," the elf continued. "Vhenadahl."

Jayne stared at the gloves, finally placing them over her hands. Warm fur lined them, luxuriously soft to the touch, but too large for her.

_I know a pair of beautiful hands they would fit, though._

"How much?" she asked, reaching for the small pouch of coins inside her vest, beneath her armor. The elf stopped her, waving his hands.

"No…No gold. I only trade for other goods right now. I don't think we'll be near a city anytime soon, given everything that is going on."

Jayne grimaced. What did she have that she could trade?

"I would consider trading you those gloves for the two Dwarven paring knives," he offered tentatively.

Jayne cast Bodhan a pleading look. He shook his head with resignation.

"Go ahead, Warden…I'll put it on your bill…"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In the spirit of the upcoming holiday (Thanksgiving here in the USA), I am especially grateful to everyone who has shown this story support. Whether it was by taking the time to leave me a review, sending me a PM, clicking on 'follow' or 'favorite,' or just bookmarking this story for reading in the future, I appreciate it so much. It makes me smile - it really does. It's a precious interaction, a connection we share across these wires. So: **Thank you!****


	14. Chapter 14

"And I don't get to go again why?" Zevran asked, hands on his hips.

"I told you: The Dalish are being attacked by werewolves, who are transmitting an incurable plague to them. You stay here."

"I am immune to this plague," he declared.

Jayne squinted at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm already a beast," he grinned cockily.

"Does everything you say have to be so ridiculously perverted? Must you really carry on like this?" Alistair complained.

"Here is the problem," Jayne interrupted, signaling them to come closer. "I suspect the Keeper is withholding important details. I want to see what we can find out on our own and perhaps, if we are very lucky, even get the chance to talk to one of these creatures. We have been ordered to find the one called Witherfang, kill it, and bring its heart back. Zathrian insists it is the only cure. I am not so certain. I believe we are caught in the middle of something far more complex. These creatures… They are half-human, after all! Our chances of interacting with them are better if we appear neutral and don't show up with any Dalish… or elves in our party."

"I am being discriminated against for my handsome looks again," he sulked.

"You can help Leliana," she suggested. "Wynne's gathering as much information as she can on the plague and how those afflicted contracted it. Leliana is going to spend some time with Sarel and find out from him if there is any past history, any connection to what might be happening now."

"I would rather go with the scouting party. I find a brisk walk in the woods may be restorative, given I had a most arduous, intense evening…" he gestured towards the foggy woods.

Jayne felt a flush of warmth tingle over her body at his sultry tone. Leliana, who'd brought them their refilled water canteens, shook her head.

"You are especially terrible today. I wonder what's gotten into you," she muttered.

_Or who_…Jayne thought bemusedly.

_What?_

_Jayne!_

She slapped her cheeks with both hands, her face stinging. Leliana stared at her out of the corner of her eyes.

"Why are you so determined to go?" she pressed him with renewed interest, a devious grin emerging on her lips as she examined Jayne.

"I take my duties to those, how do you say?…On top of me… very seriously…" he insinuated.

Flashes of the night before came back to her mind vividly and she began rubbing her cheeks more vigorously.

"It would not have anything to do with being a little soft on our Warden, would it?" Leliana giggled.

"I never go soft, my dear—"

"Can you two go double each other's entendres somewhere else? We have werewolves to catch now," Alistair shooed them off.

Sten and Morrigan waited ahead at the Dalish camp's entrance.

Jayne attempted to recompose herself and spoke with great authority.

"Yes, go back to camp. When we return, I'll need you to provide us with any information you were able to gather."

"Be careful in the forest," Leliana admonished them, stepping away.

"I will be looking forward to our… debriefing, Warden," Zevran waved.

"Onwards!" Jayne shouted, a bit too loudly, turning away as quickly as she could.


	15. Chapter 15

The Brecilian Forest lingered in a dull haze. As they forged deeper into the woods, the trails vanished, and they plodded through a thick padding of leaves.

"It is not right, this silence," Morrigan remarked. "Whatever magic is at work here, it has affected not only the animals, but the forest itself."

"It has to be a recent change, then," Jayne observed. "This forest is in decay; such a thing is not sustainable."

"I have the feeling we have been wandering in circles for the past hour," Alistair noted.

Morrigan gave him a poisonous glare.

"If you have a problem with my leading the way, then suit yourself. I can find my path back to the Dalish camp. Can you?"

"It was just an observation— more about the forest than about your abilities to forage in the wilds."

"Listen to you. Forage in the wilds…You certainly did not find me raking my fingers over the dirt, scavenging for some tubers."

"No, no…you were just lurking between desolate ruins in the wilderness, spying. Just you and the dead bird on your shoulder. Infinitely better scenario."

"It definitely was, for you. I took you to Flemeth."

"Were we intended as an appetizer or as a main course?" he teased.

"As a dessert. A sorbet. Your particular flavor would be 'stupid.'"

"Why do you always go on about how stupid I am? I'm not stupid, am I?" he asked, looking at Jayne and Sten for support.

"If you need to ask the question…" She raised her eyebrows.

"Because it hurts my manly feelings, you know. All one of them."

"Then I'll be sure to write you an apology once all of this is over."

"I was educated by the Chantry. I studied history. They don't make stupid Templars."

"Then I must have been mistaken. I'm very impressed," she quipped acerbically.

"No you're not. You're not even listening to me."

"My, you are smarter than you look after all. Your Chantry must have been very proud," she offered with chilling sweetness.

Sten halted and swiveled to their left. Jayne had heard it too. As Alistair and Morrigan engaged in their usual bickering, the fog had rolled in, denser. Just beyond the thick, smokey veil, leaves rustled. She raised her hand, beckoning for silence. They remained still, listening. The fog held, but no more sounds emanated from behind it.

"We passed this clearing before," Sten remarked. "We are walking in circles."

"You are right," Morrigan conceded, examining the trees just ahead.

"That's it?" Alistair cried incredulously. "When I made that observation, I got called 'stupid.' Sten said the same exact thing and he got a 'that's right'?"

"That's right, Alistair," she smiled ironically. "There you go. Happy now?"

"Parshaara!" Sten said impatiently.

"How is this possible?" Jayne wondered.

They had been moving in the same direction, as far as they could tell. How could it be that they had backtracked without realizing it?

"It is simple enough: a spell to misdirect and a spell to conceal," Morrigan explained.

Jayne narrowed her eyes.

"Then we must be getting close…"

"To what, though?" Alistair asked. "We do not even know what we are looking for."

"Then we just keep looking until we do…" her voice trailed off.

Staring at them, only steps ahead, was the inquisitive face of a white wolf. Jayne froze in place, holding her breath. The others remained still, also, waiting for her command. The creature peered at her curiously, its eyes large and dark, but unmistakably aware. Jayne crouched, unsure as to why she was doing so— did she expect the wolf to saunter over to her as Rune would? Yet, she could sense this creature had come to her deliberately, purposefully. The wolf examined her as if wondering about her. She went as far as believing the animal appeared melancholy.

_End this…_a woman's voice pleaded.

The voice, as unsubstantial as a thought, brushed through her like a breeze.

"Morrigan," she whispered urgently. Morrigan stood behind her, as intrigued. "What should I do? Should I attempt to speak to it?"

"I do not think this encounter is on your terms…This is no ordinary wolf," Morrigan cautioned.

Jayne leaned in farther, extending her hand. _I mean you no harm, _Jayne focused on the creature in hopes that maybe her expression, body language, or thoughts would communicate her intent. The wolf tensed and cowed.

_No! _she thought with a pang of regret.

From behind their group, low growls erupted. Sten and Alistair whirled around, lifting their swords.

"Wolves!" Alistair shouted.

A large gray one lunged forward. Sten stepped forth, thrusting out his sword and skewering it cleanly. Another leapt at Alistair and he fell backwards, pushing its gnashing maw away from his face. The wolf toppled to the side, with a loud yelp, and Alistair struck it down forcefully. Jayne turned back to the white wolf, a sinking feeling assailing her.

It was gone.

More wolves charged at them and Jayne unsheathed her sword. She did not like engaging the wolves.

_This is unnatural_, she thought, as her blade slashed through their flesh. _And yet, they leave us no choice! _

They had cut down five wolves and retreated over a makeshift bridge, a plank, over a lake before they noticed the next pack head towards them.

"Be at the ready," Jayne commanded, settling into a defensive stance. These other wolves, however, ran strangely, their bodies moving heavily until she noticed they had arms and used their knuckles to impel them forwards. They stopped at the other end of the bridge, and to her amazement, stood up, on muscular, elongated legs, straightening out their shoulders as they rose. Sten stepped forward in preparation to strike. The creatures bristled, low growls emerging from their throats. She seized his arm.

"Stand down! On my orders only!" she commanded tensely.

_So these are the werewolves_, she gaped.

They stood a good head over Sten even, sinewy, strong, and terrifying. Their eyes unsettled her: clearly human eyes, but affixed onto grotesque, monstrous heads. Their muzzles protruded forward, pointed fangs exposed as they breathed heavily.

One of them, the dark brown pelted one, his fair skin exposed only slightly at the chest, let out a strangled sound— something between a hiss and a growl. She realized he was struggling to speak.

"The Watch-Wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters. The Dalish have sent someone to put us in our place, come to make us pay for our attack!" he articulated with difficulty, between breaths.

"I have not come here for that reason."

"I do not care why you are here!" he stated ferociously. "You intrude in our forest and you are not welcome!" He attempted to stand taller.

She drew in a deep breath to stay her nerves.

"You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters," he muttered roughly, growling. "Turn back now and go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed!" His companions encroached upon them, growling, too. "Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!"

"I have not come here to fight you or your people. I want to understand. What is this curse—"

"Was it not Zathrian who sent you?" he roared. "He wishes only our destruction! Never to talk!"

"Who is Witherfang?" she asked boldly.

Swiftrunner exhaled loudly, shifting his weight backwards while contemplating their group.

"Witherfang," he explained at last, "is the first and the eldest. This forest is his home, and you will never see him…If you are lucky."

"I seek to parley with Witherfang," she declared.

Swiftrunner recoiled, his eyes glistening savagely.

"I know why you seek him and it is not to speak! We are done speaking!" He crouched menacingly, pacing before her. "Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed!"

"Swiftrunner," Jayne spoke firmly, but entreatingly, " I did not come here to fight you, but I will not draw back under your threats." She clutched her sword's pommel tightly.

She sought his eyes.

_Please listen to reason, _she hoped.

He stared at her hostilely, but finally stopped pacing.

"I do not wish to fight you, either," he admitted. "But we cannot trust you," he snarled.

He turned sideways to the other werewolves.

"Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders…as it always has…" They fell down on their hands once more, rapidly coursing away from them, through the brush and fading into the mist.

"Maker…what was that?" Alistair broke their silence.

"Zathrian owes us an explanation about the 'savage and unrelenting' monsters we just had a conversation with," Jayne stated, darkly. She sheathed her sword. It was as she suspected: Zathrian and the Dalish appeared to be involved in some kind of conflict with the werewolves. She resented being told to take sides before receiving all the information. She had not liked the Keeper upon meeting him, despite his formal and polite ways. He had appeared too calculating and eager to send her off on her errand. What had they been so deliberately dragged into?

"Morrigan, can you get us back to camp?"

"The spell will weaken gradually as we move away from its source. It may take us a while and a few more circles, but it won't be too difficult."

They moved through the forest purposefully, finding themselves traveling away from the fog. They had an unpleasant encounter with a frenzied bear, who attacked them virulently. They had been able to defeat it easily, but Jayne had the distinct realization that whatever events had been set into motion, they were no longer contained to the original parties. The malaise spread beyond, afflicting the forest. It was as Wynne had said: the air itself was poisoned.

"I was right," Morrigan smugly announced. "It is a curse."

"Well, the werewolf did say it was," Alistair retorted.

"But I said it first," she argued.

"But it sounds more authentic coming from him," Alistair shrugged.

"You think you are getting me back for the Sten comment, don't you?" she accused.

_Here we go again, _Jayne thought, letting them engage in yet another battle. Sten kept pace with her.

"You acted wisely," he told her. "You are right in not wielding your sword blindly merely because these beings appear to be different."

She merely nodded, knowing better than to thank him; he'd only argue crossly that it was a fact, not flattery or praise.

"Wisdom," he continued, much to her surprise, " is like breath. You need it, but no other can give you theirs."

She stared at his hard, stern face as they walked.

"Besides wisdom, I place my trust in something else," she replied.

"And what would that be?"

"Chance."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either," she continued, under the Qunari's intrigued gaze. "I don't even try. I move forward, fully aware that I actually control very little, but trusting that despite the chaos surrounding us, every step I take shifts the odds in our favor."

"Hm," he stated pensively.

"So tell me, then: what was the name of Andraste's husband?" Alistair's voice carried back to them, a defiant edge to his question.

She became aware that they had been arguing the whole time she and Sten had been chatting.

"This is a religious question, not an academic one," Morrigan patiently explained.

"You're joking, right? A five year-old could answer that question. Do you not know more than a child?"

"I care nothing for your religion. And this game of yours is over," she declared haughtily, pushing ahead of him.

"Oh, how the mighty have crumbled," he stated triumphantly.

"Yes," Sten continued to her, ignoring the quibbling ahead, " a good strategist knows when to strike and when to retreat, when to attack and when to speak. Restraint is as important as decisiveness. You would make a good Qunari, Kadan."

He'd taken to calling her 'Kadan" ever since they had recovered his sword, Asala, in Redcliffe. She did not dare ask him what it meant, but noted, touched, the reverent tone anytime he used it. A compliment from Sten was a rare, precious occurrence. She peered down at the leafy trail, the subtle hint of a smile emerging upon her lips.


	16. Chapter 16

Few things were trying her patience as much as the evasiveness she'd encountered among the Dalish. She'd been attempting to seek an audience with the Keeper for the past hour since returning to camp, but found herself thwarted by Mithra, who guarded the Keeper's aravel with an unrelenting zeal. When she requested to see Zathrian, Mithra had returned with a subtle ultimatum.

"He desires to know if you found Witherfang."

"My words are for him alone," she replied, her patience waning.

Mithra disappeared once more only to return moments later, addressing her curtly and dismissively.

"The Keeper cannot be disturbed right now. He wishes to emphasize the importance of your finding Witherfang…and completing your mission."

"I have some questions regarding this mission," Jayne surveyed the aravel's entrance. She could force her way through, she realized. All she had to do was incapacitate Mithra with a well aimed punch and push past the young elf guard standing rigidly before the door. It would undoubtedly start an ugly incident and put everyone else in the camp at risk. The satisfaction of hurtling her fist into Mithra's stomach and tossing the guard over the railing would be short-lived, she knew, but imagining it was the only thing keeping her from actually engaging them.

"I have the right to speak to your Keeper," she insisted, her stance more threatening. "I've been charged with a sensitive mission; I am in every position to demand an explanation."

Her hostile undertone had not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. Another soldier hurried towards them. Mithra curtly issued him orders while staring at her, ready to react to any movements.

"Warden!" Lenaya appeared around the bend, her staff bobbing lightly towards them. "Perhaps I can be of aid!" she offered in a conciliatory tone.

Jayne backed down, secretly grateful for the interruption. She had worked herself into a modest rage. At the First's urging, she followed her into a nearby aravel, taking a comfortable seat near the warmth of a wood-burning stove.

"You mustn't begrudge Mithra—" Lenaya admonished her. "She is merely following orders."

"Why won't Zathrian talk to me?" Jayne complained. "He had no problem asking me to become involved in Dalish matters. He knows I have very little time— WE have very little time," she emphasized. "The Blight will be upon us soon."

Lenaya rested her staff behind the door before turning to the stove, placing a kettle on it.

"Keeper Zathrian intends to honor the treaty, but before anything, this matter needs to be resolved. He cannot…" She stopped as if considering the next words she uttered. "He is not well."

"Is there a problem with his mental faculties?" Jayne wondered.

She examined Lenaya more carefully. Was she trying to tell her something?

_It isn't unusual to see those who had been in power hesitate to relinquish their positions once the time has come_.

Lenaya sat across from her, leaning back on a frayed cushion. Her eyes turned to the ceiling and she appeared to be choosing her words carefully.

"I do not doubt his mental capacities. But I am worried about him." She rubbed her forehead. "You will not find anyone in this camp, even among our elders, who does not remember life before the gracious guidance and protection of Zathrian."

"He is that aged?" Jayne wondered aloud, thinking that he did not appear much older than her own father had been.

"Oh, older," Lenaya smiled sadly. "He has never confirmed it, nor has he denied it, but we believed for a very long time that Zathrian was the last of the true elders, here to guide us, to lead us. He is so very ancient, Warden. The things he has seen, has lived through…all that he knows…"

"You said 'believed,'" Jayne noted.

"Yes…" She stood once again and headed towards the stove. She tossed a pinch of dry herbs into the kettle and pulled out two clay cups from her cupboard. "I always thought he would go in Uthenera."

"But…" she prompted her.

"We have always had an uneasy truce with the werewolves," she confessed. "They have been here for as long as we can remember— always, it seems. But they did not cross our path before and gave us a wide berth in the forest. But at the beginning of the season, when we arrived to the settlement, everything seemed different. The werewolves began to engage our patrols, attack our hunters, and wreak this plague upon us. Zathrian had always kept us safe…but something shifted. I can sense it. He can no longer hold them at bay. The forest is dying, Warden…and I cannot help thinking that Zathrian's decline is somehow connected." She faced Jayne. "I am afraid for our Keeper, for our people, for our forest."

Jayne leaned forward.

"Lenaya, you need to find out what the shared past between the Keeper and the werewolves is."

"He will not…"

"How can you be his First if he will not trust you? It is your duty to preserve the history of your people!" Jayne stressed. She was aware of overstepping her bounds, but diplomacy had wasted almost two of their precious days so far.

"How can I go against my elder, my benefactor, the one person to whom I owe everything?" Lenaya objected. "Why can't you do as he bids you?"

"He is not my elder. I respect his position as Keeper, but I owe him no similar debt of gratitude. I have come to ask him to honor a treaty signed between the Dalish and the Grey Wardens." She avoided saying 'humans' and 'treaty' in the same sentence, fully aware of the dishonorable history between their peoples. "I am being ordered to meddle in affairs I do not comprehend! Commanded to murder another being or else! I have been told that werewolves are savage, their humanity long lost. Yet, the creatures I encountered in the forest standing up and looking me in the eyes when they spoke proove otherwise. Please," she implored, "There is more to this matter than what I have managed to gather and I would like to give Zathrian the opportunity to share the truth with me." She took the cup of tea Lenaya offered her. "Imagine that there is still a way to save your people, aid these creatures, and end all the bloodshed."

"You would help _them_?" Lenaya interrupted incredulously. "After all they have done to us? Haven't you seen how indiscriminately they attack us and pass on their affliction, destroying who we are at our very core? Are they worthy of your succor after what they have done to the Dalish?"

"As a leader, you must always seek to forge ahead with your people. You cannot allow the past to define all your interactions!"

Lenaya's eyes darkened.

"The past is why we find ourselves where we are, Warden. We cannot forget all the injustice and violence committed against us. It is what keeps us alive."

"Revenge is not the answer," Jayne countered.

"Isn't it?" Lenaya shook her head. "Are you preaching forgiveness to us, now? Have you found it within you to forgive the man called Rendon Howe?"

A crushing coldness splintered inside her.

"My affairs are none of your concern."

"Leliana told us your story. What she sees as your bravery to move forward, we understand as an old hatred. It's a dangerous and poisonous instrument, this hatred. Yet, it instills in us all a will to survive."

Jayne set down the cup heavily and stepped out of the aravel without another word.

Dusk settled as she walked to their camp.

_It is vanity that wishes to turn self interest into grand rhetoric, _her father would say. _Be honest— but say little, _had been his advice. No wonder Fergus used to tease her so much. _Mind the holes in your own socks! _he'd laugh.

_Why have I endured all this? _she asked herself, wandering up the small hill.

From the other side of the gentle slope she could see their camp.

_Do I keep fighting because I seek revenge? _she worried, genuinely mystified.

She had played in her mind, time and again, how she would confront Howe someday. She took solace in the fact he knew she had survived and hoped his slumber was careworn for it. Thoughts of Howe propelled her forward, for sure, claiming and stoking any hatred she could ever summon, so that she could make semblance of considering everything else around her with relative levelheadedness.

_Howe…He will answer for his betrayal._ There was no doubt of it in her mind.

It wasn't even his death she anticipated, although it was the final price she would demand; she sought to make him feel helpless despite all the ill-begotten power he had accrued.

_You lie, Howe. But this story will not be yours to tell as you please for much longer. _Her hand trembled, and she crouched close to the ground. The campfire further down ahead dissolved into a blur.

_Lenaya is right. This hatred gives me strength. But what then? Even if I achieve all this? What then? There is nothing. Highever will forever be haunted to me. No act of revenge against Howe will bring the dead back. The pain will remain. No amount of righteous anger can change the truth: they were all brutally slaughtered and their last moments on this earth were of despair and pain. _

_ That does not change, no matter what I do._

She brought her wrists up to her eyes.

_I would have been truer to myself had I died with them. Maker, I'd give anything to go back to how it used to be. Anything._ She heaved a shaky breath.

_And it's Howe's doing, _she peered down at her hands, the blood thrumming loudly in her ears. _It is Howe's fault that every loving memory I have of my family is besmirched with grief._ _Hate runs through my veins. Perhaps that is the secret to surviving the Joining Ritual, _she thought.

_I was a suitable host. The Taint did not find me inhospitable. _

She found herself weeping uncontrollably, her throat unable to utter any recognizable sounds other than gasps for breath as silent sobs racked her. As she gradually regained control of her breath and wiped the wetness off her cheeks, the searing pain dulled into an aching emptiness.

_I am not well._

She pushed herself up off the grassy ground, and gazed down at their camp, her thoughts vacant. Her feet carried her, she realized, to the circle of tents surrounding the fire. She disregarded Rune's enthusiastic greeting, eagerly jumping about her, seeking attention, as she approached the camp's water bucket.

A ladle rested against the rough wooden rim, the bottom of the bucket dry.

"Is there no water?" She glanced about crossly, a flickering annoyance surging forth.

"Oh!" Oghren cried out, "Last one to touch his nose has to go fetch more!"

She turned around to see him, Alistair, and Leliana rapidly raise their fingers to touch their noses. Morrigan absentmindedly touched hers without removing her eyes from her grimoire.

"Heh, Jayne! Looks like you have to—"

Before Oghren could finish, she had furiously dashed the bucket to the ground, kicking it forcefully, halfway across the camp.

"Looks like I have to EVERYTHING!" she roared.

She marched up to them and halted menacingly before Leliana.

"I gave you a mission, but apparently it is too difficult to overcome the impulse to be the center of attention," she hissed angrily, thrusting her finger at her. "Who gave you the right to tell the Dalish anything about ME?" she shouted. She met their blank stares with a fierce coldness.

"I—I did not say anything that isn't already known, Jayne," Leliana uttered nervously. "It was a gesture of trust to share a story with a fellow—"

"Trust? Did you consider any trust I placed in you?" She reeled around, taking in all their faces, a threatening gleam in her eyes. "Mine is not some entertaining story to tell by the fire," she growled. "The murder of my entire family is no fodder for drunken ballads. You," she turned again to Leliana, wrath rising like black bile within her, "are not allowed to even utter their names."

Leliana's brows furrowed, pain surfacing in her eyes.

"None of you are," she accused, scanning their circle. "None of you!" she cried, her voice breaking. She stumbled to the side and Alistair reached out to steady her. "Do not touch me!" she shouted, retreating. "None of you…can utter their names…" her voice faded, sorrowfully.

They remained immobile, unsure of how to proceed. Morrigan shut her book and sat up warily. and Wynne, stepped out of her tent in bewilderment to witness the commotion.

"Cousland," a voice behind her stated brazenly.

Zevran's accent made it sound like two distinct words. Collecting herself, she raised her head and glared at him stonily.

"What are you doing?"

"Uttering their name."

"How dare you—" she lunged heavily towards him, determined to knock him into the ground.

He sidestepped her with ease, positioning himself behind her. She twisted her torso and hurled a fist in his direction. He tilted his head to the left, barely missing the blow. He flashed a signal of caution to the others with one hand as he invited her forward with the other.

"Come on, Warden," he taunted her. "Come have it out. You and me."

She chased him as he scurried up the hill. Her thrumming heartbeat and breath roared in her ears. Her mouth contorted into a scowl. He mocked her, crouching leisurely at the top, waiting for her to reach him with a glint in his eyes.

"You go too far," she snarled as she approached him. "Just because you bedded me doesn't mean you have an advantage over me!"

"No, I have an advantage because I am a better duelist than you, Warden." He sprung up, rushing past her. His finger grazed her neck. "If that were a dagger, you'd be dead."

She touched her skin in dim surprise only to charge at him once more.

"You are formidable in the battlefield, you know. In that chaos you thrive. You hack through the air with that big, clunky sword of yours. I've seen you; I've even been on the receiving end of that sword! But… at close range, one-on-one, crazed as you are right now, my dear, you are at a distinct disadvantage. I, on the other hand, am in my element: we are alone, in relative darkness, there are no distractions…I can focus only on you. And right now, you are at _my_ mercy." He crossed his arms and flashed her a cocky grin.

"Stop flitting around and fight like a man," she demanded.

"Just because you bedded me doesn't mean I'll give you an advantage over me…" he replied sardonically.

He lunged and jabbed his finger below her left breast.

"And that's the heart. Got you again."

She glanced down in horror, as if there really were blood spurting from the touch. He stood irritatingly close. She acted as if she were revving up for a punch, but thrust her leg out instead, barely grazing his thigh. He stepped backwards and vanished behind her once again. A volley of pokes assailed her upper and lower back.

"Kidneys…perhaps a collapsed lung…" he whispered in her ear before she reeled around. "Sounds like one of Alistair's delicious recipes!"

She screamed frustratedly, swinging her fists blindly before her.

"That's right, Warden. Fight. Let it all out," he urged her, facing her as he retreated, beyond the range of her strikes.

She could no longer tell if she was angry or tired anymore. He leaned forward and gave her a light slap on the cheek.

"Don't let down your defenses."

"According to you, I've already been eviscerated." Her breathing had become labored and she rested her hand on her hip.

"No, no, that's only if I strike you here." He aimed for her torso.

As he bent forward, she raised her leg, aiming a side kick at him. The hit landed squarely on his leg. He hollered a string of profanities in Antivan, backing away and rubbing his knee.

"Try again," she dared, a savage grin on her lips. "If that had been my longsword, you would now be…maimed," she pointed out with satisfaction.

"Longsword? Maimed?" He squinted at her in confusion. "O-ho! Aren't you stealthy! No one will EVER suspect you have a massive longsword tucked away in your stockings… You are a nest of rabid nugs, Warden." He tapped at his head.

He circled her again, bidding his time. She breathed in slowly, acutely aware of his movements, revolving her body before he could disappear behind her. He surged forward again and thumped her on the head. She thrust her hands out, trying to seize his arms. She was not able to grasp them in time, but landed a thick pinch on his bicep.

"Ai-a!" he yelled, extricating himself. "That's dirty fighting!…Well done!"

Emboldened, she leapt at him. He managed to swerve out of her path, but lost his footing over the irregular ground and fell to the side. She took advantage of his fall to raise her foot in an attempt to pin down his chest. His eyes widened and he rolled out of her way just as her boot crashed over the ground where he'd been lying. She scurried off backwards, before he could react to her failed attack.

_I'm going to show you whether or not I can duel you, assassin. _

She was entirely focused on him, his movements and hers, measuring her breathing.

_I am in full command of myself, _she noticed. The anger had dissipated. All that remained was a peculiar focus and concentration. _You knew what to do, _she realized with surprise.

Before she understood what was happening, he clenched both her wrists, clasping them tightly. With a swift push, he had her pinned between a tree and his own body.

"I win," he bragged provocatively.

She attempted to shake herself free, but his grasp was firm.

"Let's see you get out of this one." He squeezed tighter, as if daring her.

She relaxed for a moment and then pressed her wrist against his thumb, loosing it from his hold. With her arm freed, she forcefully steered her hand between their bodies, reaching for his groin.

He released her completely, tilting his hips backwards, out of her angry reach.

"Now that's a maneuver you'd feel triumphant over for one glorious minute until you realized the magnitude of your crime and were filled with regret!" he reprimanded her.

She faced him, rolling her shoulder, a smug look on her face.

"But with anyone else, go for it," he finally grinned.

Realization of how she had behaved before then overcame her. She stared at the ground, overwhelmed.

_Maker…What had happened?_

"Come," he urged her towards the path to the camp.

She hesitated, shaking her head.

"Maybe I should give everyone a wide berth after how I behaved."

"You said some harsh things down there. Nothing that can't be fixed, though." His arm encircled her waist and he pulled her to him. "People only do stupidly impulsive things when they are in love, fearful, or angry. Next time you are like this, don't hold it in…but also try not to destroy the camp…"

He touched his forehead to hers and held her contemplatively for a few moments.

_You brought me back to my senses, _she gazed at him with amazement.

"So you offered yourself up as a sacrifice to my fury?"

"Tch!" He rested his chin over her head. "Hardly. You didn't land one punch on me. Although I'm starting to think you could probably kick the Archdemon to death," he winced.

She could hear the smile in his melodious voice. She lifted her head so that she was eye level with him and moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, tilted her head forward, kissing him.

_ You remind me I am more than my hatred._

He lowered his hands to the small of her back and pressed her hips against his. A sultry craving tingled throughout her body, but she sought to push herself away from him. He groaned faintly in protest, burying his face in her hair.

"This is more devastating than that kick to my knee."

"Someone could come looking for us."

"Then we'd better hurry, my luscious Warden…" His lips dissolved warmly on her neck, gently sucking her skin.

"Come to my tent later on," her voice wavered even as she stepped back.

"What happened to giving everyone a wide berth… It's a beautiful night, no?" he pleaded. "I'll keep you warm—" he began, just as she spun around.

"You have your orders," she spoke commandingly, but cast him a lighthearted glance.

He rubbed his face in defeat.

"Aah…That was some foreplay, Warden… but please tell me it won't be necessary to do to get you in the mood every time. I'm rather attached to my bits and pieces…quite literally."

He unwound his arm from around her waist and fell into step behind her as they reached the camp. The hushed conversation around the campfire ceased the moment she walked up to them. At the sight of her, Leliana rose as if to greet her. Taking in her puffy, red rimmed eyes, Jayne realized ashamedly that she had been crying.

"Jayne, I would never betray—"

She raised her hand, bidding her to stop.

"I am the one who owes you an explanation: I am sorry, Leliana. I had no right to behave that way, not with you. I have no excuse other than allowing my sorrow to get the best of me. Can you forgive me?" She contemplated all their faces. "I am so sorry."

Leliana reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly and nodding. She smiled timidly, blinking back fresh tears. Jayne embraced her, the same surge of emotion that had overcome Leliana affecting her, too.

"I do like me some girl-on-girl action," Oghren said dreamily.

Groans followed by some laughter erupted. Jayne squeezed Leliana's arm affectionately as they peered into each other's eyes warmly.

"There is still a pressing matter to be resolved," Alistair said.

She turned her head to him questioningly. He quickly raised his index finger and rested it on his nose. A small flurry of hands rose immediately until everyone except Morrigan, who'd turned back to her book, had a finger on their noses.

"Ahem, Morrigan. I believe you have to refill the water bucket," Alistair announced. She lazily lifted her finger to her nose. "Too late," he added.

She lowered the book to her knees and glanced around their circle.

"This is ridiculous." She glared at them with contempt as she stood up. "Fine. I'll get the water just to end this foolishness."

"She might poison it," Alistair whispered to them.

"We have all become inured to poison thanks to your cooking!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Jayne's eyes wandered to Zevran, sitting across from her, laughing as Oghren followed up with something she couldn't make out clearly, but that she was certain was wildly inappropriate.

_I'm not a vengeful being. There is a fine line between revenge and justice. I am sure I will cross it, especially when it comes to Rendon Howe…But I am not defined by my hate solely._

She contemplated the fire, the night finally tranquil. Farther away she could hear faint singing in Dalish. She sought out Zevran's face again. He lent his ears to the conversation taking place around them, undoubtedly amused, but his gaze rested upon her.

_Maker's breath, Zevran. I do love you, _she admitted, not without a small degree of alarm.


	17. Chapter 17

She stood before Lenaya and Sarel, along with Alistair and Leliana that same evening. She decided there was still one piece of business to take care of before retreating for the night. She announced the decision to meet with them abruptly, asking Alistair and Leliana to accompany her. She hadn't failed to notice the exasperation in Zevran's face as they assembled to find Lenaya.

"The Dalish mustn't sense we have anything to hide, or that we are divided."

Now, facing the First and their _hahren_, she wished to put any misconceptions to rest.

"You are wrong about me," she said calmly. "It is not as simple as you would have it. Don't doubt I feel hatred and seek revenge. My loss is fairly recent…I know my judgment may not be the clearest when I ponder any course of action regarding this matter. But understand that behind my anger is something I believe is just: that those who seek to destroy me do so in the name of ambition, in the name of greed. They seek power for personal gain, not to aid their people. I am a Cousland," she explained, knowing fully well it would mean little to them, "and I was raised to conduct myself as a Teyrna. My father instilled in me a desire to serve and protect Ferelden. And that, Lenaya, has been my compass. And even if I stray, I do not go far. My course is steady. Even now. The Blight is coming and I need the Dalish. We need each other, if we'll ever have a fighting chance."

Lenaya considered her words, her hands gripping her staff firmly.

"You may ask me anything you want, but all Leliana told you is truth. I have nothing to hide. I hope that in time, the story she told you will acquire a more satisfying ending, one in which the evil of men and Darkspawn has been vanquished. That would be a great story for the ages and I know Leliana would tell it well." She glimpsed at Leliana reassuringly. "My sincere wish is that the Dalish be remembered for the valorous part they played in it.."

Lenaya exchanged glances with Sarel.

"You speak of justice, but—"

"Justice and honesty go hand in hand," Jayne interrupted. "If you will not help me, I will seek the truth elsewhere. I need the Dalish, but not at any cost. I can wait no longer. Tomorrow we go into the ruins to settle this matter," she warned them.

Lenaya revealed her surprise.

"You would betray us?" she asked faintly.

"No," Jayne assured her. "But this must end, one way or another. I need a reply."

The woman lowered her head.

"I understand…I will try to give you an answer for what you seek by morning. I will inform the Keeper of your resolve," she agreed.

* * *

><p>The three broke away at the camp upon their return. Leliana bid them goodnight and Alistair joined Oghren, Sten, and Bodhan. Morrigan appeared enthralled in her book, but hadn't moved away from the campfire to the privacy of her tent yet. Jayne caught a snippet of their conversation as she headed for her tent.<p>

"That's easy! I miss having a _real_ bed," she overheard Alistair state.

"Me? A barrel of good ale…Maybe even mediocre ale," Oghren mused. "Pah, who am I kiddin': any ale right now would do."

"Being able to step outside and buy a fresh loaf of bread," Bodhan offered.

"This is pointless," Sten mumbled.

"Morrigan misses hairy Chasind men," Alistair goaded.

"Actually, I'm not even that picky," she responded in an indifferent tone. "Any experienced man would do, Alistair. Do you know any?"

Jayne grinned at the chorus of "Hoo!" both Oghren and Bodhan shouted spiritedly at that. She bent slightly to pass through the narrow entrance only to be greeted with an unexpected sight: half a dozen candle nubs, the size of votives, glowing throughout the tent on tin saucers. Two goblets and a pitcher sat on the ground next to her bedroll. Zevran watched her closely for a reaction. She smiled, her eyes taking in the tiny pinpoints of soft light.

"It's beautiful," she marveled. "But Oghren is going to go insane when he isn't able to find all the saucers tomorrow morning!"

"The candles won't burn for too long." He poured a sweetly fragrant red drink into one of the goblets before offering it to her. "The Dalish make their own wine, did you know that? They make it from the berries they collect in the forest and then press…" He sniffed it. "Probably tastes horrible," he smirked. "Brecilian Forest, pre-Blight…all the makings of an unforgettable vintage."

They clicked their goblets together and sipped at the same time.

"Gaaah…" he grimaced. "Evokes all the charms of this cursed place. I'm coating my daggers in this next time."

"It's not that bad." She smacked her lips against the acidic flavor.

"Please, Warden," he insisted, reaching for her goblet. "This is dreadful, even for a Fereldan. Either these Dalish have no taste buds or they mistranslated 'water to boil dirty socks in' for 'wine.'" As he whisked the goblet away, he leaned towards her, sniffing her hair. "You, on the other hand, are quite delicious. Shall we continue where we left off?" He fingered the clasp on her shirt and flicked it open, quickly directing his attention to the next one. She felt the cool air settle on her skin. He had unbuttoned her shirt completely and tugged at the binding wrap around her chest. She tilted away from him and began to blow out the candles, modestly concealing herself.

"What are you doing?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Just…A little privacy." She tried to sound as nonchalant as she could. He stilled her hand.

"I want to look at you," He dragged himself up to her on the bedroll. He ran his fingertips over her clenched hands and tried to pull them away from her chest.

"I'd rather not," she insisted.

He withdrew his hands immediately. She didn't wish him to misunderstand; she just didn't want him to see… and compare her to all the stunning and voluptuous conquests he'd probably enjoyed so often before.

_I barely filled out a formal gown back in the day, and now, with these ugly scars_…

"Why not?" he puzzled.

"I have scars." She exhaled, staring down at the bedroll.

"I would imagine you do." He sat back on his heels. "You think it would bother me?"

She nodded vigorously.

"I have a few of my own," he continued, reaching for her hand and placing it beneath his shirt, over his stomach. "See?" He ran it over a raised and smooth line running sideways. "If you'd like, we can compare scars…I bet I have more…"

She smiled faintly, but did not move.

"Is there something else? Something you are worried about?"

She hesitated.

"You do know I grew up in a whorehouse, yes? I saw bodies in all stages of undress morning, afternoon, and evening. I have seen everything imaginable—"

"They are very small," She pointed at the wrap binding her breasts. He blinked a couple times and his expression softened. "They are scarred… and too small."

"There's an old Antivan saying…" He wore that ridiculously affected expression of gravitas he always pulled out anytime he dispensed his Antivan pearls of wisdom.

"Dear Maker! Must you? It's bad enough—"

"'It does not matter how large your slice of the cake is, but rather how sweet it tastes,'" he recited suggestively.

Jayne raised her hands to her face, mortified. He laughed heartily, planting a tender kiss on her head. He lowered his head and gave her another kiss, slowly, on her cheek. He grazed her nose with his and stopped before her mouth. "And you are the sweetest, my dear Warden." He bit her lower lip lightly, his hands reaching for hers, pulling them away from her face. She found herself staring again at his hands, so large over her own, but gentle as he caressed her—

_The gloves! _she remembered. _I need to give them to him!_

"Very well! This will require I employ my most seductive tactics. How well versed are you in poetry? Antivan poetry, specifically."

"I know a good poem when I hear it," she answered honestly, still clinging to her shirt.

"A-ha!" he scoffed. "Well, trust me then: you won't be hearing it now."

He reached to the side, grabbing the goblets of Dalish wine again.

"I am going to need all the aid I can get if we are really going to do this." He handed her a goblet and sat back. "It was recited to me, I recall, by a rather wealthy target of mine. Let's see…'The symphony I see in thee/ it whispers songs to me/ Songs of hot breath upon my neck/ songs of soft sighs by my head/ songs of nails upon my back/ songs of thee come to my bed.'"

Jayne made no attempt to conceal a grimace.

"Oh dear…"

"Oh, I know, I know!" he said, slightly indignant. "I couldn't believe that she thought this would actually convince me to spare her." He shook his head. "I had sex with her anyway… but that goes without saying. She still had to die. The poem was amusing at the time, however, and thus I've always remembered it."

Jayne's eyes widened.

"You _killed _her anyway?"

He shrugged.

"Well, yes…but _after _we made love. What do you think I am? Some kind of monster? It's not as if she didn't enjoy herself. Certainly there are much less pleasant ways to spend your last hours, no?"

_"_You are a saint amongst men, Zevran," she stated wryly, shaking her head.

He squinted at her and nodded.

"You know, I kept telling the other Crows that, and yet, they never felt the same way." He flashed another smile. "Here I thought you might be cheered up by some naughty poetry. What did you think?"

She pursed her lips, pensively.

"I think I prefer poetry in couplets or triplets. Rondelets and villanelles are more common in Fereldan poetry, but that could be attributed to Orlesian—"

"I agree, wholeheartedly, with whatever you said! May we now quickly proceed to the part of the evening where I remove your clothes? I don't think I can wait any longer."

She could sense her resolve waning at the urgency in his voice. She raised a placating finger at him. He uttered a strangled groan before collapsing backwards onto the blankets.

"I'm going to ask you a question. Answer truthfully, and I'll give you a reward…" Her eyes glinted. He lifted his head interestedly.

"What kind of reward?…"

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

"This suddenly took a turn for the better…" He shut his eyes tightly.

She threw one of the blankets over his head. She reached inside her pack for the hidden pair of gloves.

"Put your hands out and tell me what you feel."

He put his hands up, as if cupping the air before him.

"I fervently hope it's your breasts," he smirked.

"Can you correctly guess what this is?" She brushed the leather gloves delicately over his cheek. He startled, surprised. "Can you smell what it is made of?" she raised them to his nose. She laid the gloves in his hands and watched him grasp them, then smooth his fingers over the soft leather and over the embroidery. He pulled the improvised blindfold off and stared at the gloves, a mystified expression on his face.

"These are gloves." He continued to stare at them.

"They're for you," she explained, almost shyly.

"Gloves? You're giving me gloves? What for?" He raised his eyes at her, slightly taken aback.

"They're Dalish gloves. Like your mother's," she added quietly.

He stared down once more, turning them around in his hands slowly. His confusion eased.

"I…" he paused, pulling them over his hands. He extended his arms, admiring them. "Maker's breath…" he whispered. "You're right. It is like my mother's." He examined the needlework and wiggled his fingers. "The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery…but these are very close. And quite handsome."

He beamed at her, amazed.

"You're welcome," she smiled back.

"Do I seem surprised? Perhaps I am."

The gold thread glinted slightly in the candlelight.

"Still, I appreciate the fact you even thought of me. No one has simply…given me a gift before. Thank you," he told her earnestly.

He continued to inspect them, leaning back into the pillow. She lay down beside him, observing him, wonder in his eyes. The dark swoops running down his his face reminded her of a bird's talon marks. She wondered if they meant anything. They appeared so different from the markings she saw on the Dalish— less florid, but fluid. His eyes seemed almost transparent in the candlelight. She enjoyed watching him with that expression: a rare and disconcerting sincerity she thought suited him just as much as the overconfident swaggers and smirks.

"These are very lovely. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble," he said.

"You are worth it," she grinned.

He finally drew his eyes away from the gloves and faced her.

"I don't know what to say."

She leaned over and pecked his cheek, drawing nearer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm very glad you like them…"

"That's an understatement," he murmured.

_I can't take this. _She shut her eyes. _I'm going to give in. I am going to blurt out how I feel about him and make things awkward._

"…Because I had to bed the merchant for them," she added gravely.

He flashed her a roguish grin.

"Oh? And he only gave you a pair of gloves?" he interjected. "I would have at least thrown in a belt, too, for good measure!" he cried. "Come here." His arms enfolded her. "I need to teach you a few moves so you can get us more gear next time!" he teased.


	18. Chapter 18

"Zevran?" she called out in a half whisper, her arm and leg draped over his body.

He turned his head to her sleepily. It was still night outside.

"Hmm?"

"Why don't you ever call me by my name? I'd like it if you called me Jayne."

"I like calling you Warden. It's like a term of endearment for me now…"

"But it sounds so formal!" she lamented, rolling onto her back. He seized her arm and placed it back over his chest.

"I will call you something else, then."

"What?" she asked, suspiciously. "It'd better be something nice…"

"Sí, amora," he whispered, kissing her nose.

"I like the sound of that. What does it mean?"

"It means 'Warden,' in Antivan."

He laughed in earnest as she attempted to wrestle him.

"But what is all this chatting? You can't sleep?" he asked.

"Not really," she acknowledged.

He searched her face.

"The nightmares?"

"Not this time," she told him.

"Tell me." He propped the pillow up behind his head.

She shared her conversations with Zathrian, with Lanaya, her encounter with the werewolves in the forest, and her unsettling experience with the smaller white wolf. She remained in a preoccupied silence after finishing.

"Do you know what a 'blind bid' is?" he asked.

"No." She turned her large brown eyes to him.

"Anytime the Crows receive a contract for an assassination, two things can happen: either a Master is assigned to do the job or the assassins get to bid on it. Negotiations ensue and the bid is awarded once the Crows agree on a palatable split of the spoils. Most of the time bids are very straightforward: this group wants a member of that other group killed because he is encroaching on their territory. Another person wants to eliminate a rival because she is threatening someone else's power or influence. Whatever the story, the details are laid out very clearly: who and why. It is not our place to question motives, pass judgment, mediate…we carry out our missions and get paid…Still, it's more than a mere courtesy to share the details behind a contract."

"In a blind bid you aren't given any details?" she guessed.

"Exactly." He squeezed her shoulder. "In a blind bid you are told to carry out an assassination on someone to be encountered at a specific time and place and not much more is revealed. Blind bids cost more, but few assassins willingly agree to take them on."

She folded her hands over his chest and rested her chin on them, peering into his eyes.

"Why is that?" she wondered.

"Because those tend to be the most unpleasant," he explained. "See, anyone who gets involved in Antivan politics or economics should be smart enough to understand the risks. If you try to cheat a merchant prince, then don't expect to get a rap on the knuckles. If you are going to mess with fire, then realize you may get burned, no? It's a dangerous game to play, but in the end, like any game, it follows certain rules— it's nothing personal; it's just business, as usual." He punctuated his speech vividly with his hand. "But in blind bids there is the added element of the unexpected…of unpredictable and unpleasant contingencies."

"That bad?" Jayne's heart tightened.

"Oh, the worst," he sneered. "And it's not that we, assassins, have some misguided sense of justice— it's simply that the more you know, the better you can prepare yourself to complete your mission. It is disconcerting…and potentially very dangerous…to appear at a predetermined time and place only to discover that your mark is a five-year old child or that the elderly woman sitting across the table from you is weeping not only because she understands she is about to die, but because she realizes you were probably sent by the beloved son she had been expecting for the lavish dinner laid out before you," he said, disgusted. "Some of us like to draw the line somewhere," he muttered.

"Where do you draw yours?"

This was tricky territory.

He stretched.

"I don't make bids on contracts that target children. I just don't. Most of the other assassins won't either, but some do and it happens more often than you'd imagine…" his voice trailed off. Antiva sounded less fascinating and increasingly sinister to her. "But here is the point of all this: this mission you have undertaken sounds like a blind bid. You have been told to kill a target and are not being given any relevant specifics. In my experience, such bids almost always conceal some complicated entanglement that would absolutely destroy the person seeking to place the job, were the details to be disclosed. Zathrian is hiding something— and it is devastating, my dear Warden. Of that, you can be sure," he cautioned her.

She glanced down, her head and hands still perched on his well-defined chest, his skin warm and tawny. She knew he was right; those were her own suspicions. But something else nagged at her: that darker, violent side of his, the facet of his character she had difficulty reconciling to the man who laughed so easily, who could display so much concern and kindness.

"Why did you take the bid to target me?" she asked faintly.

He tensed beneath her. She forced herself to face him.

"Let me ask you something, since your answer would satisfy both your and my curiosity," he countered, seriously. "Why did you _spare_ me?"

They stared at each other, his silence expectant.

"Because…" she paused, gathering her thoughts, "because there was something about you at that moment," she ventured. She wasn't flattering him, or trying to be coy, and he, thankfully, didn't veer off into one of his flirtatious diversionary tactics. He observed her calmly, but inquisitively. "And I've tried to understand it ever since…Here you are…so very skilled; I've seen you…You move like a shadow…Look at all the times you have snuck into this tent without my noticing. What would have prevented you from tracking down our camp and simply slipping in one night and assassinating me?" He listened, his eyes blinking slowly, engrossed in her words. "Instead, you mounted this disastrous ambush— in open space, no less! Haven't you lectured me— as recently as tonight, even—on how fighting in an open battlefield is my biggest advantage, that I wouldn't be able to swing my longsword around in close quarters or that my heavy, broad strikes would be useless in a one-on-one duel against a trained assassin?"

A wan smile edged his lips.

"Zevran, the only conclusion I've come up with is that you must have known the attack was doomed. Why did you do it? On that day, when you were lying on the ground with my sword pointed over your chest, you appeared… almost relieved. It was so strange…and terribly sad. And I couldn't do it." She stared at him. "I guess that's where I draw my line."

He folded his arms behind his head, diverting his gaze from hers.

"Warden, you don't give yourself enough credit," he tsked her.

"I think I am right," she stated.

He glanced at her, an affectionate glint in his eyes.

"Ah, but you always think you are right…" he smiled.

"Don't do this."

His expression clouded again.

"There is a story I haven't told you," he began. "It's the story of the mission right before I came to Ferelden."

He appeared as if he were going to launch into yet another one of his wild, unruly adventures, except for the sorrow in his eyes.

"But…no, I…I would rather not," he informed her abruptly. "I shouldn't have said anything."

The frustration in his tone was evident, but it was not directed at her. As much as she wanted to know, as much as she wished he would confirm her suspicion, she noticed how unusually upset he'd become. And he'd always been so respectful of her boundaries, physical and emotional, she remembered. She sank back into the bedroll and hugged her arm across him as before, nestling her head lightly on his shoulder.

"It's all right," she reassured him. "I understand."

He exhaled.

"Thank you." He adjusted his arm around her. "Perhaps another day, hm?" he promised.

"I need to meet Witherfang," she changed the topic. "I can't rely on Zathrian. I have to get the story elsewhere… from the werewolves."

"Will you let me go with you next time?" he asked, rubbing his hand over her back.

"But the plague—"

"If I can't go, then Alistair can't go," he said simply.

She sat up slightly.

"What do you mean by that? I thought we had established that Alistair and I—"

"I can take care of myself quite well. I don't need to be fussed over. If you are going to protect anyone, then you should protect Alistair: after all, he is to be king, no?"

She frowned. He did have a point. Alistair shouldn't be exposed to danger unnecessarily.

_And he would be so very reasonable if I were to tell him so…_

"I'll think about it," she humored him.

"Ha!" he interjected. "You will do exactly as you please. I know better," he chuckled.

She did not have a response; he was right about that, too.

"Know this, then: I don't take my command lightly. I know each of my decisions has profound repercussions. I am fighting for Ferelden, yes, but don't think for a minute that I would place any of you in any unnecessary danger. Don't think that I don't seek to protect my-"

He interrupted her with a passionate kiss.

"Mmm…I do like it when you go all heroic on me," he murmured against her lips.

"I'm being honest—" she insisted.

"You don't know how to be otherwise, Warden; that is exactly what I … like… best about you."


	19. Chapter 19

Jayne awoke in a stupor, with the clanging of metal pans and loud voices conversing outside. She found herself tangled beneath the blankets with Zevran, she realized with satisfaction— her arm sprawled over his chest, his arm ensconced beneath her shoulder, her leg entwined between his. He slept soundly, his arm flung up, she noticed amusedly. He hadn't managed to slip away after all, she congratulated herself.

Alistair's voice suddenly calling for her outside startled her from her thoughts.

"Jayne! Jayne! Are you awake?"

Zevran stirred and his eyes shot open, blinking tiredly against the brightness permeating the tent.

"Yes! I am up," she responded loudly. Zevran sat up, reaching for his discarded clothes along the bedroll.

"We need to go," Alistair continued.

"Is everyone else ready?"

When was the last time she had slept in like that?

Alistair did not respond, but she could see his outline outside the tent wall, along with Rune's eagerly sniffing snout against the canvas. Zevran had managed to slip on his breeches and was buttoning them up.

"Alistair?"

"We have a problem," he finally revealed.

Jayne frowned. Zevran labored over turning out his shirt.

"What is wrong?"

She could hear the hesitation in his voice.

"I am afraid I have bad news."

_Maker's beard! What is it now? Get on with it, Alistair! _She tensed, bracing herself for the next words.

"Zevran has gone missing."

At this, Zevran rolled his eyes.

"No one has seen him since last night. His bedroll is all made up." He lowered his voice significantly. "I don't know, Jayne, but I suspect something isn't quite right. No one wants to talk about it."

She rubbed her forehead.

"I'll be right out," she assured him.

They waited quietly until he was far enough from earshot. Zevran sighed.

"You realize they all know at this point," he murmured. "I'm sorry…I had every intention of leaving your tent before daybreak."

"I told you it doesn't bother me," she replied.

"I couldn't leave the bedroll without incurring the wrath of the frenzied octopus who held me in her grasp while she slept," he joked.

Jayne furrowed her brow as she picked through her pack for a set of clean clothes.

"You can't call me by name, but you have no problem comparing me to a tentacled sea creature!" she protested crossly.

"A very adorable octopus, I might add," he bent down to kiss her softly on the cheek. "I was a most willing captive." He handed her the boots she had tossed aside the previous night. "I think I can sneak out the back of the tent." He tentatively lifted the bottom edge.

"Zevran," she said, turning to face him, "I know you mentioned you'd prefer we be discrete—"

"It's not that I 'prefer' it, it's just that people might be resentful that—"

"I'm not going to lie to them. I think that's worse— the lie," she told him plainly, brushing out her hair. "We have nothing to be ashamed of."

He stared at her in silence, a slightly surprised expression gradually turning into a subtle grin as she went about readying herself. He glanced down at the gloves, resting in his lap, as she fastened off a simple braid.

"So you will not protect my honor, hmm?"

"Absolutely not," she smirked, hoisting up her thick stockings. "In fact, I am adding how I seduced the great Zevran to my list of heroic accomplishments."

"Oh? You were doing the seducing? How did you ever?" he purred, tugging lightly on her braid.

"Pssh!" she dismissed him with a smug sideways glance. "I am magic, don't you know? A strikingly handsome elf told me that once, during a game of Wicked Grace."

"Yes, you certainly did cast some kind of spell…Although I believe that elf's intentions towards you were lurid from the start," he remarked seductively. She dropped the blanket as she finished securing her binding wrap tightly around her chest. "Allow me to assist you," he offered impishly, reaching for the end of the wrap. She slapped his hand away lightly.

"We're in enough trouble as it is…"

He leaned back and clapped the gloves together pensively.

"That reminds me of when I was an assassin in training…" he sniggered, his eyes focusing on a distant scene unfolding in his memory. "We were paid almost nothing, so the easiest way to earn some coin was by sitting on the rooftops at the center of town at dawn, when people would begin to depart from the brothels— or the residences of absent husbands or wives— attempting to do so unseen. I'd sit up at the top, along with one or two of my partners in crime. As soon as we'd spot worthwhile victims, we'd make sure they knew we had caught them doing their 'walks of shame'…Of course, we'd follow up afterwards with a courteous visit to collect payment for our silence. One particular gentleman, a wealthy Antivan shipbuilder, Verro Sarrastina, was an easy target. He certainly made his ruinous way through a staggering number of beds in Antiva City…We did respect him for that much." Zevran rubbed his chin amusedly. "Anytime he stepped out into the street, he'd simply wave to us and shout, 'Come by the house tomorrow!'"

"My sister-in-law always made Antiva sound so exciting and picturesque. Ever since I've met you, Antiva only becomes more and more terrifying," she informed him, tucking in her shirt.

"I suppose it can be, depending on who you are…but your sister-in-law was right: if you can bear the frequent rain and the stench of fish either cooking or rotting, Antiva is quite stunning, you know. I'll admit Antiva City can be a bit too much with all the golden statues and colored tile on the streets— it's like a newly minted merchant prince's boudoir…a gaudy display of wealth over taste. Rialto, though…Ah… Rialto is very charming. Antiva City was more like it before it was razed to the ground during one of the Blights. Flowers growing everywhere, placed before each window. And the canals…You would love the canals; in the afternoon the sun hits the water in a way that makes the surface shimmer like silver.

"It does sound lovely," she mused. "Would you be my guide?" she asked him playfully as he helped her to her feet.

"Your _personal_ guide, at your beck and call. It would be my pleasure," he bowed gallantly, his fist clenched over his heart. "Look to your left, to enjoy a beautiful historic bridge," he acted out, waving his hands before them. "Now kindly look to your right, to duck the incoming dagger…" he grinned. "An unforgettable trip. Once we depart, you will miss the breathtaking sights, the exotic foods, and perhaps, your pancreas."

His eyes sparkled and they laughed together. A shadow quickly darkened her thoughts, freezing her smile in place. Had she planned anything in her life beyond the Blight? How could she dare to hope for such a thing?

She emerged from the tent into an awkwardly quiet camp.

"Good morning," she uttered to all.

"I'll say!" Oghren cackled loudly before Leliana's fist slammed into his shoulder.

She stubbornly held the tent flap open, awaiting Zevran until he grudgingly ventured outside, at last. Oghren smirked briefly, after establishing some distance between himself and an annoyed Leliana. Despite the expectant silence and brazen stares upon them, she pulled on her bracers and began to give them their orders, discouraging any further dwelling on the matter.

"Come with me," she beckoned Alistair, whose eyes were as wide as Oghren's missing tin saucers. "We have some pending business before we depart. Morrigan, Zevran, and Oghren—prepare your canteens, don your armor, and bring your weapons— you are coming with us to the ruins. Sten and Leliana, we need you to help the Dalish with their patrols. Bodhan and Sandal— the usual, please: tidy up, stock up on firewood for later… and keep Rune close by. Wynne, I have a request—" she turned to the older woman, but she had already disappeared into her tent.


	20. Chapter 20

"Care to share anything?" Alistair hinted as they approached the aravels. "Anything on your mind?" he insisted. "Something you'd like to tell me?" he growled.

She moved forward, ignoring him.

"So yesterday, while we were all chatting, Oghren kept talking about the joys of thrusting big pikes into verdant fields while giggling at Zevran in a most disturbing way. I suspect he was talking about something other than an actual pike and field. Would you kindly weigh in?"

She grimaced.

"Alistair, I am not going to lie to you."

"So it _wasn't _ just a big pike after all!" he cried with false surprise.

"Zevran and I…" she stopped, searching for the right words.

"Zevran and you what?" he asked, a hint of curiosity and concern in his tone. She loved him like her own skin and bone, but he could be so very thickheaded.

"You see, Alistair, when two lampposts meet and like each other—"

"Now, was that really necessary?" he sulked.

"I don't know what we are…but whatever it is, we are."

Alistair took her words in silently.

"He makes me happy, he makes me laugh," she attempted to explain.

"Of course he does: he's a buffoon."

"I think we are all entitled to a little bit of happiness, after all we have been through…and everything that awaits us," she said somberly.

"You could at least have confided in me so that I wasn't standing there like a fool, my jaw to the ground, after unsuccessfully attempting to assemble a search party, as everyone else seemed to be in the know!" he accused heatedly.

"I wasn't aware that the Grey Wardens had a protocol for that! Perhaps the Blight can wait while I fill out the appropriate paperwork—oh, and yes— hand it in to myself, since— surprise!— we are the only two Grey Wardens left," Jayne gestured wildly around her.

"It's not a Grey Warden rule," he replied sullenly. "I thought you trusted me. I thought we were friends."

She might as well have been punched in the gut.

"Alistair," she spoke more docilely. "I told no one. I may have shared some of my feelings for him with Leliana, but understand there was no intent to hide…Look, if anything…I don't quite understand what Zevran and I have," she struggled with the words. Alistair stared at her, his arms crossed, but at least he was listening. "But it is important to me. I…I need this," she asserted. "Don't think for a moment I do not understand the scope and gravity of our mission…that I don't ponder its outcome…But if that is all I do until then, I might crack. Remember it was you," she said, stepping forward and resting her hand firmly on his arm, "who told me to hang on to the things that keep us grounded, that keep us whole. He helps me with that. He keeps me…from losing myself inside my head. He forces me to remain present, in the moment, with him, " she told him quietly. "I am sorry. I seem to be blundering left and right with the very ones who keep me afloat. I don't think I can bear it if you begrudge me," she pleaded truthfully, her eyes downcast.

His face softened.

"I hope he is treating you like the lady you are," he offered kindly.

"Oh, thank the Maker he isn't!" she grinned mischievously.

Alistair's eyes widened again and his hands flew up to his ears.

"La la la la! I cannot hear you!" he sang frantically.

She laughed. He chuckled at last. He took her hand gingerly and held it to his chest.

"Jayne, I trust you with my life, and I know you do the same. The only times we have fought were because we couldn't agree on how to proceed, but even in those times, we argued over what we believed was in the other's best interest, always considering each other's well being and our duty. I am not going to nag you to be careful, or bother you with my worries about his getting so close to you…It would be disrespectful. So I will say this to you instead: if he brings you joy, who am I to judge? But if he ever becomes a source of sorrow, you have my ears and my shoulder, too."

Jayne smiled, touched.

"And my boot on his rump, if necessary," he added.

"He might actually enjoy that bit," she snickered.

"Yes… I realized that just as I said it. I cannot _believe_ all that outrageous nonsense he says actually _works_!" He shook his head, but his gaze was warm.

"Thank you, my friend." She took his arm as they walked together.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: For everyone celebrating the holidays, I wish you all the best the season has to offer! May you be inspired by constant and loyal muses and be granted clever insights on what to do with all the fruitcake... Someone once told me a saying I hold dear (no, not Zevran, although you can guess where he gets that penchant for proverbs in this story...): that it was a great misfortune when someone was so poor that all he had was money... May you not want for the basic necessities and find yourself richly blessed with all the good things that truly make up a well-lived life: joy, laughter, health, friendship, love, and...good fanfic? ;-) Cheers!**_


	21. Chapter 21

"What in the Void was that all about?" Jayne hissed under her breath angrily.

"You pushed him and now he is pushing back. That simple," Alistair commented as they rushed back to the others.

"I don't care what he says, we are going into those ruins right now." She adjusted her sheath's strap over her torso.

Lanaya had arranged a meeting for them with Zathrian. The austere Keeper, who appeared decidedly worse for the wear since they'd arrived, listened to them share their concerns. But upon being asked directly to address the curse, he'd turned to Jayne.

"Lanaya and I spoke for a long time yesterday," he told her, settling on the window seat across from her. "You have incited her to ask many questions." His eyes narrowed slightly, but he smiled at her.

"She is within her rights to do so, isn't she?" she asked, summoning all the composure she could muster to keep herself from pointing an accusatory finger at the man.

"That she is," he agreed. "Lanaya told me much about you," he resumed. "And I believe you and I are not too different, Jayne."

"How so?" She dashed a curious glance at Alistair.

"You and I understand great loss," he stated.

She leaned forward, clasping her hands.

"Yes, I suppose I am an accidental Grey Warden because of it." She hadn't gone there to rehash her past for his curiosity.

"Tell me something, and answer me honestly," he requested. "When you find the ones who murdered your family, what will you do?"

Jayne clenched her jaw tightly. Alistair shot her a warning look. Was he seeking a character flaw? An excuse to proclaim Dalish moral superiority over human pettiness?

"I will seek justice," she replied.

"Ah. Justice." He nodded cryptically. "What does that mean to you?"

"The definition, as I understand it, or what it means to me personally?"

His were the darkest eyes she had ever seen on an elf.

_Elven eyes should be captivating, radiant and limpid, but Zathrian's eyes gleam blackly. _

"There is no difference," he replied.

"I know that I will seek out those who betrayed my family, yes."

" That is a very diplomatic reply," he stated with a trite smile. "But…once you find them?"

"I do not think there will be much of a conversation," she declared. "There is no reasonable or plausible explanation that could possibly justify their actions. They are dangerous and I intend to stop them."

"Stop them…" he pondered.

"Yes." She shifted uncomfortably under her armor. "It means I will kill them. I do not know of any other way to stop them." She peeked apologetically at Alistair. It was the truth.

"Death as a punishment?"

"Of course," she answered curtly. _What is the point of this? _

_Sometimes a man's questions reveal more about him than any answers would, _she recalled her father telling her. She lowered her eyes sadly.

"Would this bring you peace?" he wondered, more to himself, it appeared.

"I don't know," she offered sincerely. "But it would end their machinations to hoard power. It would safeguard others from comparable suffering," she concluded. "That would provide me some solace."

"For a while," his voice trailed off.

"Pardon?" she puzzled.

"Grief is a persistent companion," Zathrian continued. "It corrodes all memories, until every single one is marred," he told her as her chest tightened. "It interposes itself between yourself and every sweet word, every cherished moment." She'd had the same thought the previous night, she realized ominously. "I ask you another question, then: how do you quell grief?"

She inhaled deeply, his question resonating in her mind.

"I don't know," she repeated.

Zathrian nodded.

"Yes, I expected as much." He rose and moved towards the doorway. "You don't know because there is no peace…I will tell you this much: the werewolves are the legacy of grief. They have brought this upon themselves. Remember this, when you enter the ruins. I do not doubt they suffer, but you will understand that they deserve their suffering. The greatest kindness you could do, would be to end their existence, their half lives, neither human nor beast."

_A blind bid conceals devastating truths._

"I do know one thing about my grief," she raised her eyes to him. He paused, turning away from the door, his hand resting on the knob. "If it is not released, it poisons." She remembered lashing out in anger against Leliana. "And I am still learning…with all this grief…that I need to count on those I care about…and who care for me… to help see me through it. My longing cannot change or bring anyone back," she felt her lip quiver, "but nor does my hatred. I may always have my grief, but I hope I can overcome my hatred. Nothing lasting can be built on such a brittle foundation," she added.

"You are right," he smiled sadly. "You will always have your grief. It will stand by you loyally, long after everything else has passed."

She startled as he pushed the door open, light piercing the dimness.

"Go, Grey Wardens. See for yourselves. You will know in your hearts," he nodded. "You will understand, Jayne."

Jayne shook her head angrily recalling his words.

"Was he trying to unsettle me?"

They emerged into camp, where they verified their armor and equipment before their excursion into the forest.

"Where is Wynne? I need to check in with her before we go." She glanced around the camp and caught sight of her, just as she exited her tent. "Head down to the entrance. I'll meet you down there in a little bit," she told Alistair.

Wynne noticed her approach, but turned her face away, pretending to fuss with a satchel she was carrying.

"Wynne!" Jayne halted before the slender, silver haired mage. "Off to the sick ward?"

"I am."

"I don't know if it'll make a difference or not, but keep a close eye on those afflicted by the plague today. Let me know if they respond in an unexpected way—"

"Very well," Wynne nodded, still avoiding her eyes.

"…Because we are going to be tampering with the…" Wynne's eyes remained downcast and focused. "It might trigger something with the curse, perhaps…" she hesitated. "Wynne, what is wrong?"

Wynne nodded towards Zevran, sauntering down the trail with the others.

"You are quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

Jayne focused on the thick leather buckle crossing his back as it disappeared around the bend.

"You know about me and Zevran." She said it more as a check for herself. She hadn't anticipated how to have these conversations.

"I almost wish I didn't," she stated morosely. "Half of us aren't getting any sleep the way you two carry on all night."

A flush of embarrassment prickled her face.

"We'll try to keep it down next time," she offered, flustered.

"That's…um..kind of you, I suppose…" she replied awkwardly. "Well…Anyway. I've noticed your blossoming relationship and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going? It seems he only ever has one thing on his mind," she said coolly. Jayne crossed her arms. "I question the wisdom of a Grey Warden in being involved in such an affair."

The lingering aggravation from her encounter with Zathrian threatened to spill over, but she took a deep breath instead.

"Zevran is special to me…and I enjoy his company."

"Which is why I worry." Wynne tilted her head with consternation. "You are a Grey Warden. You have responsibilities and I fear you will neglect them."

"Being a Grey Warden is not an easy task," she acknowledged. "But I am also more than a Grey Warden. I have my own mind…and emotions."

"But you are a Grey Warden," Wynne insisted. "The title is not a coat that you can cast aside at the end of the day. It should inform your every action, for every decision." Wynne shook her head. "The way you are acting now…it is not fitting of a Grey Warden."

Wynne's words stung her deeply. She had always held the mage in high esteem, finding a warm solace in her benevolent, calm manner. She fought against the urge to shape all sort of angry words in protest to her accusations.

"I disagree, Wynne. I can be a Grey Warden, stay true to my mission, and be with Zevran," she replied.

Wynne examined her doubtfully.

"If you insist. I have given my advice. Do with it what you will." She clutched the satchel and stepped past her.

_Well, that is one way I can strive to feel youthful! Apparently I am not beyond a good talking down to from my elders!_ Jayne thought with irritation. _There are just a few too many elders here today assuming they know me better than I know myself. _

She marched herself down the path, and as indifferently as she attempted to carry herself, she couldn't hold back the tears that rolled down her face.

_Why is this upsetting me so much?_ _She is not Mum, _she thought, with exasperation. _No, the conversation with Mum… would be quite different. _She wiped her nose with her sleeve. _Not only am I in love with an elf, he is an Antivan Crow assassin, to top things off. _She snorted derisively, imagining her father's reaction. Her father had been consistently fair, she found; Dalish clans had always been granted safe passage through Highever. _Yet_, _I am sure there would be a problem with a Cousland heir courting an elf, _she thought uncomfortably, _if their initial reaction towards Fergus' infatuation with Oriana, whose foreign origins had at first seemed insurmountable to my parents, had been any indication._ She glanced back. _Wynne, you, of all people, should know how terrible it is to be judged by others based solely on shallow assumptions. I wonder if we would have had this conversation if Alistair had been the one emerging from my tent. Thank you for reminding me of deep-rooted prejudices afflicting Ferelden. _

At the camp's entrance, the forest stretched out before them, foreboding and glum. She met the others after wiping away the wetness over her cheeks. She glanced at Zevran, who narrowed his eyes curiously, upon examining her. She shook her head briefly, dismissing his concern.

"You either been drinkin' or cryin'," Oghren remarked. She flared her nostrils, which she knew were probably a ruddy shade of red.

"Let's go."

"Is anything the matter, Jayne?" Alistair wondered. Morrigan looked on interestedly.

"You'd tell me if it was drinkin', wouldn't you?" Oghren raised his head up to her as they made their way farther from the camp.

"She's upset over that sad breakfast you tossed together," Zevran mumbled. "Who eats fermented beans for breakfast before engaging in battle, I ask?"

"Heh. They fermented on their own. But the slime made them good and saucy."

"Ooh, I think I might be ill," Alistair groaned.

"I am sure the ruins will have a functional outhouse," Morrigan grinned snidely.

"Tell me your stomach isn't churning just a little bit since this morning!" Alistair complained.

"I did not have any of the beans," Morrigan replied smugly.

"Right…I forgot your diet consists of sucking the marrow of the innocent," he grumbled.

"I had a time gettin' the food ready this morning. Someone stole all my saucers. I found 'em just before we left…candle wax all over 'em. It's gonna be like shuckin' nug turds off—"

"Why bother? It might add flavor, along with the nose muck and beard hairs, don't you think, Alistair?" Morrigan was obviously relishing his nauseated face.

"Next time, someone else can cook breakfast," Oghren muttered.

"I'll gladly take over," Alistair stated.

"Guess what'll be for breakfast then!" Zevran exclaimed.

"STEW!" Morrigan, Zevran, and Oghren shouted in unison, startling a small flock of birds nearby.

"I don't only cook 'stew,'" Alistair explained disconcertedly. "I cook… 'stews.' Ferelden stew and Chantry stew," he clarified.

"Ah, yes… Chantry stew…isn't that Leliana's dirty bath water?" Zevran ribbed him.

Oghren face scrunched up with lusty laughter.

"You're alright, you knife-eared pipe cleaner," he chortled.

Zevran turned to her discretely and winked. She blinked back at him slowly, grateful for the welcome distraction.


	22. Chapter 22

Zevran crouched and lithely shifted his weight over to his left leg so that he could lean over the row of cracked marble slabs lining the desolate hall before them. He tapped his fingers firmly over the surface, listening intently. The only other sound in the room was from Alistair's stomach, roiling angrily.

"Trap ahead," he concluded.

Their frustrated groans echoed in the dank and musty chamber. It had been the third or fourth time the rogue had advised hem to take a different path. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the scattered rays of light that penetrated through various cracks. Thick, rope-like tree roots forced their paths down past the cavernous ceiling.

Earlier in the day Morrigan had successfully disrupted the spells that bound the fog in place. Once the worst of the mist dissipated, they found themselves before a pathway lined with rows of stark towering columns. Overgrown and unruly vegetation surrounded them, engulfing the serpentine trail leading to a greater domed structure ahead. As they wandered farther, a far more bellicose Swiftrunner, along with four of his ilk, ominously surrounded them.

"The forest has not been vigilant enough…Still you come!" he rasped angrily, rising intimidatingly before her. "You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!" he barked, his sharp teeth glistening.

"I am not leaving," Jayne asserted. "I need answers and I am done delivering messages between you and Zathrian."

"You came even though we warned you not to. You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!"

"You consciously chose to attack the Dalish first. I want to know why!"

"They deserved no less!" he snarled. A gurgling grunt emerged from his throat. "You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!" He stopped before her, and with a deep howl, summoned his brethren to attack.

She and Alistair stepped forward, Oghren positioned himself protectively before Morrigan, while Zevran deftly unsheathed his daggers, ready to spring into combat. Swiftrunner lunged, raking his claws at her face. A burst of fire shot out of Morrigan's outstretched palms, burning Swiftrunner and two other werewolves in front of them. The stench of singed fur filled her nostrils as high pitched yelps pierced their ears. The sound disturbed her; it reminded her too much of Rune's own yelps of pain. Alistair dragged down one of the disoriented werewolves, his fur still smoldering, and struck his sword in the creature's chest. Oghren bludgeoned the leg of another werewolf, the bone splintering with a hollow crack. To her left, Zevran plunged both his daggers into another werewolf's neck and chest. The beast tumbled to its knees, clutching at its throat. Pulling the daggers out simultaneously, he whirled himself around, swiftly impaling the bloodstained blades into the back of the last werewolf, who had struck Oghren to the ground in a frenzied attempt to reach Morrigan. Jayne swung her sword and slashed into Swiftrunner's arm. He yowled, thrusting his muzzle towards the sky and clutching the bleeding gash. He scurried backwards, away from her.

She bridged the small distance between them, raising her sword into a menacing short guard, grasping her pommel with one hand and steadying the base of the blade with the other, ready to demand for his surrender when something violently rammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Her shoulder crashed forcefully into the sandy path. Raising her head, she realized had been thwarted by a fiercely growling white wolf who positioned itself protectively between them.

She stared into the animal's light grey eyes as it glowered at her defiantly.

_Witherfang, _she instinctively knew.

The wolf emitted a bloodcurdling howl. Swiftrunner retreated promptly, followed by the white wolf.

Jayne glimpsed behind her to see the bodies of the fallen werewolves strewn around them.

"Follow them!"

She charged up the path after the wolf. Their armor and weapons clanged as they ran in close pursuit. Three werewolves farther ahead guarded the entrance. Jayne scowled as she approached them rapidly in a long guard position, her blade positioned to lance anything that dared lunge at her.

"We are invaded! Intruders have deceived their way into the forest's heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!" she heard one of them bellow.

_The Lady?_

Their forms vanished down a dim entryway. She dropped the tip of her sword, letting it fall into the dirt before her.

Alistair stood beside her, a spray of blood glistening over his chest plate. She checked on the others: Morrigan dabbed at a thin scratch on her collarbone and Oghren's beard was powdered with ashy dirt from his fall. Her pauldron was visibly dented where she had fallen.

"I have to say, hospitality customs at the Brecilian Forest leave much to be desired," Zevran scoffed.

"These are ancient Elven ruins," Morrigan marveled, brushing her fingers over the carved stone walls at the entrance. "It is teeming with power within…old magic."

As they entered the ruins, musty darkness enveloped them and a damp, unpleasant chill settled over their skin.

Zevran painstakingly examined each passageway for hidden trap mechanisms. For the good part of an hour he had led them past crude pressure plate trap triggers. One hallway had been completely impassible, large rusted leg traps littering the ground.

"This one appears clear," he announced at last, to their relief, giving the large doorway a final glance.

"Are you sure?' Alistair squinted suspiciously.

"Absolutely!" he declared grandly, seizing Jayne's wrist and pulling her back from the entrance. "Alistair, why don't you go first?"

Alistair smirked, shaking his head.

They descended a wide uneven staircase down into a sprawling atrium, heavy wooden doors lining the walls along unlit passageways littered with rubble and debris. Water trickled down the side of one of the walls, droplets of water plinking into a puddle nearby.

"Which way now?" Jayne whispered, considering the doors cautiously. They searched the ground for tracks. While they examined the floor, one of the doors ahead of them slammed open and three werewolves emerged from it, seeking them out in the shadow. Alistair fell into position beside her and together they charged the creatures.

Once they had swiftly dispatched the first wave of werewolves, they'd discovered the door the beasts had emerged from had been sealed off. She, Alistair, and Oghren had thrust their shoulders into the solid door in an effort to knock it down as Zevran watched on skeptically. It did not budge. Morrigan attempted burning and then hurtling bolts at it, but except for scorch marks on the surface, the door remained secure.

"That did almost nothing," Alistair stated, bewildered.

"Can we unlock or unhinge it?" Jayne wondered.

"That is one of my specialties." Zevran stepped forward, his hand briefly squeezing her waist as he brushed past her.

"Well?" Alistair finally asked, as he watched him run his fingers nimbly over the surface and along the frame. Zevran raised his leg, and tentatively kicked his heel against it. The door did not even rattle.

"It's no good. This is a door to keep whatever is on this side out. The hinges, lock, knob…everything is on the other side- and besides being several layers thick, it is probably blocked with a solid cross beam."

"Door's too heavy," Oghren complained, splaying his stubby fingers over the rough wood.

"I just said that." Zevran arched an eyebrow at the dwarf.

"Heh! Guess now I'm a specialist too."

"Oh, you are definitely special. I'll give you that," he smirked.

"There is no saying how far these ruins go or whether their paths converge further on," Morrigan advised them.

"Do you sense anything more specific, anything that could guide us in selecting another entryway?" Jayne turned around at the center of the atrium, examining the various diverging paths and doors.

"I can sense that there is magic, but nothing more specific."

"Let's take this passageway, then," Jayne pointed at a dark, but unimpeded hall.

"I don't know…I don't like the looks of that. I think the stairwell down this one might be better," Alistair suggested.

"I prefer the passageway," Jayne insisted, making note of the dilapidated steps covered in moss.

"Let's decide this the usual way, then." Alistair made a fist. "Coin, beggar, satchel." At the silent count of three, Jayne tossed out a fist and Alistair tossed out two fingers. "Beggar takes coin!" he grinned, pleased.

Morrigan observed them disapprovingly.

"Anyone else here concerned that crucial decisions are being settled over a children's game?"

"You have no idea how often we do that," Alistair grinned cheekily.

"I thought you were raised by a military strategist and tactician," Morrigan scolded Jayne.

"Apparently the subtleties of coin, beggar, satchel eluded him," she lamented, heading towards the stairwell.

"I, on the other hand," Alistair began pompously, " could be king based solely on my victories playing—"

"Just hush, Alistair," Morrigan grumbled, following Jayne.


	23. Chapter 23

It had to be late afternoon, Jayne guessed. They had traveled farther and farther below the ruins in a monotonous pattern of descent. They defended themselves against predatory giant spiders and battled skeletal warriors, bound to corrupted and desecrated burial sites and dilapidated sarcophagi, but no werewolves. Although the battles themselves had not been difficult, she had grown fatigued and more and more disoriented. Each room, each passageway resembled the last, varying only in the degree of ruin and decay present. Morrigan enchanted their torches with a faint light that would not consume itself so that they could see in the blackness. The doorways appeared endless, leading them away from the surface in labyrinthine twists. It wasn't only wearing on her, either. She could see the frustration and exhaustion in all their faces. At one point, as they inspected yet another time-ravaged room, Alistair huddled over one of the corners and began to retch.

"With compliments to the chef." Zevran shook his head at Oghren.

"I'm alright," Alistair offered unconvincingly.

Jayne leaned over him, patting his back. The stench of bile mixed with partially digested beans hit her potently. She gently led him away from the offensive odor. Even in the slight glow of Morrigan's ghostly lights she could see his face appeared wan and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She sat him down on a large stone, remains of a fallen statue.

"Is it just the beans or something else?" she asked him, concerned.

"I'm betting my gold on the beans," Zevran offered.

"They weren't that bad," Oghren mumbled guiltily. "I ate them and I'm fine."

Morrigan examined him skeptically.

" 'Fine' is a relative term," she declared.

"You know, I think the fact they call your people "children of the stone" has something to do with Dwarven cuisine," Zevran continued.

Alistair leaned to the other side of the statue and began to vomit again. Jayne took her handkerchief and moistened it with her canteen water. When Alistair turned back, she dabbed it on his face.

"Can we stop talking about food?" he pleaded, heaving slightly.

_Maker, what have we gotten ourselves into? We're in some subterranean hallway surrounded by hostiles and the future king of Ferelden is helpless, sick as a Mabari. This is a disaster. We were probably outnumbered to begin with and now we have to close ranks to defend a fallen ally. I do not like fighting defensively under such circumstances. Too much at stake._

"We are going to backtrack and get you to safety," she reassured Alistair.

"Backtracking would imply we knew where we headed from," Morrigan pointed out.

Jayne cast a look of desperation at Oghren. If anyone knew how to navigate convoluted underground passages, it would have to be the dwarf.

"Maybe I could get us back," Oghren suggested hesitatingly.

Alistair seized his canteen with a trembling hand and took a small sip.

"Or you could give me a minute," he said shakily. "Maybe I'll feel better in a bit."

Morrigan handed her staff to Jayne and leaned down to face him. Placing her hand over his forehead, she peered into his eyes pensively, startling him.

"I could try some healing magic," she stated, rubbing her hands together.

"What do you mean 'try'?" he blurted out nervously, edging away from her.

"Wynne is good at some things…" She examined his armor, slightly puzzled, and addressed Jayne. "If I am to help him feel better, I need to place my hands on his stomach—"

"I think you should place your hands somewhere else if you want to make him feel a lot better…" Zevran grinned lewdly.

"I'd like to place my hands around your neck— that would make _me_ feel infinitely better," Morrigan retorted as Jayne unbuckled part of Alistair's chestplate .

She grasped the edge of his undershirt, pulling it up sufficiently, so that Morrigan could lay her hands beneath the armor. Whispering words in an unfamiliar tongue, Morrigan slid her hand over his abdomen. He recoiled at her touch.

"Cold! Cold!" he winced.

"I can remedy that with a fire bolt," she cautioned him.

"Now that would be 'hot,'" Zevran chuckled.

"And steamy!" Oghren snorted.

"They say Morrigan has a 'fiery' disposition, but she really strikes me as a 'warm' person!" Zevran laughed. Oghren joined him.

Morrigan had been focusing on maintaining her concentration, but turned around annoyed, her eyes crackling with magic. Alistair flinched nervously.

"Umm…That doesn't feel so good," he interrupted.

She directed her attention back to him, almost apologetically.

"Those two fools are distracting me," she complained. "Was it helping at all?" she asked.

He nodded faintly.

"Does it feel good when I touch you there, me darlin'?" Jayne heard Oghren whisper loudly in a mocking tone to Zevran.

"Mm! Magical!" he responded with exaggerated delight.

Both erupted in more furtive laughter.

"Honestly!" Jayne finally chided them. "I'm glad you can both be so ribald in the face of danger. I feel like I am shepherding an unruly group of children through a Chantry visit!"

_Complete with child who inevitably gets ill_, she thought, with slight exasperation.

She glared at Zevran and Oghren, daring them to make any more colorful quips as Morrigan continued her spell on Alistair. They avoided her stare, their heads downcast, their contriteness marred by the occasional muffled laugh. She directed her gaze back to Morrigan and Alistair, noticing that Morrigan had closed her eyes, in complete focus, as her lips chanted silently, her hand moving in a soothing and repetitive circular motion over his stomach and up his chest. His face still appeared sallow, but she noticed he was staring at Morrigan, almost as if intrigued by her.

"Are you feeling any better?" she finally asked, opening her light green eyes.

"I think so," he replied. "That may have helped," he added gratefully.

Their eyes lingered for a moment longer than politeness required, Jayne noticed, curious.

"Of course it did," she smirked, pleased with herself, as she took her staff from Jayne.

"That Morrigan is a real hands-on kind of gal," Oghren muttered.

"You know what they say about idle hands, don't you? That's why it's good to stay busy, have an occupation, a hand jo—"

"Enough!" Jayne cut them off irritatedly as Oghren rollicked with chortles.

"My sincerest apologies, Warden…and Morrigan. The fact you are here and able to assist is quite…handy," Zevran stated slyly.

He and Oghren broke out in more laughter.

_So juvenile! _Jayne thought, pinching the bridge of her nose as Morrigan tossed them a deflating stare of disdain.

A thunderous thud resounded further down the hallway. They all exchanged glances, suddenly alert. She quickly buckled Alistair's chestpiece back on.

"Are you well enough to forge ahead?" she whispered, examining his face.

"What was that?" Oghren asked.

They listened intently.

Shuffling steps, several, echoed down to them. A flicker of firelight reflected off the walls down the gloomy passageway.

"I think I can keep pace," Alistair declared. "But to be honest, I don't think I can charge and attack anything.

Jayne nodded and took a deep breath.

"Oghren, you come forward with me. Morrigan stand behind and between us. Zevran…"

She sought out his eyes. Before she was able to say anything, he wandered over to Alistair.

"Not the first time a Crow has served as a bodyguard to a contender to the throne. But these are far less glamorous circumstances, no? Allow me to do all the work; just relax and enjoy the view," he stated with a playful head nod at Alistair.

"Hullo, fleabags," Oghren muttered, gripping his mace determinedly as they approached the turn at the end of the hallway.


	24. Chapter 24

After the turn, the hallway led to a lone ornate door adorned with heavy filigree on its hinges.

"Either someone uses this passageway often or we are being expected," Jayne concluded, noting the lit torches. She seized the large iron ring hanging from the door and tested it, pulling it toward her gingerly. The door budged slightly, indicating it was unlocked. She gripped her sword and paused briefly, not turning while she addressed them.

"I do not know what awaits us beyond this door. Stay close, fight hard."

She wanted to add "Protect Alistair,_" _ but he seemed miserable already as it was, as he followed behind Morrigan somewhat unsteadily, his stomach bubbling. As she reached for the ring once more, the first torch went out. She turned in surprise only to see Zevran stealing away to the other torch.

"What are you doing?" she cried. The second torch went out and they were shrouded in darkness.

"Giving us an advantage, my dear Warden. Look beneath the door."

A sliver of light glowed brightly.

"They expect us to burst into the room. Let's surprise them: the door opens, no one is there. They wander in to see… We pick off the first ones in. We rattle them and gain the upper hand," he whispered excitedly.

"Not a bad plan," Morrigan conceded sarcastically. "Unless they kill us first in the dark."

"Or worse: we strike at each other," Alistair worried.

"There is also one very important fact you are all missing," Jayne cautioned. "These are half human, half wolf creatures. They are probably guided by their sense of smell, as well."

Morrigan snapped her fingers, summoning a spark, and relit the torches.

"Rune was able to track me to Flemmeth's hut after Ostagar. It's a very powerful sense in these animals. I am willing to bet they know exactly where we are- probably have known every movement we've made throughout the ruins. Make no mistake: we are on the defensive."

"Very well. We stick to the plan: jump out, hit everything hard. That's why you people never have any good battle stories to tell. It's just bash and smash. No finesse," Zevran mumbled.

"I know how we can disorient them werewolves," Oghren offered.

They stared at the dwarf who, taking advantage of the attention, wore an expression of stern concentration and effort before releasing a rip-roarious fart. Protests erupted in the narrow passageway.

"Curses upon Maferath, Oghren! Why would you do such a thing?" Jayne cried, pinching her nose in disgust.

"I am almost tempted to side with the creatures!" Morrigan grimaced.

"That's what beans do," Oghren stated simply.

"Puh! You smell like an odious sachet of doom," Zevran complained, as Alistair began to look queasy again.

"A what?" Oghren asked confusedly.

"Get into position," Jayne commanded between her teeth. "Same formation as before. Hold your places— on my count…"

"What's a _shashay_?" Oghren puzzled.

_Maker, if we make it out of this in one piece, I will remember not to bring these two together on any missions again_, she thought, nervousness rising as she took the ring firmly and pulled.

A dimly lit passageway opened up before them, four thick columns forming an atrium of sorts at the center. Staircases abutted each side of the passage. Further ahead another staircase had been blocked off with a fence of wooden stakes, in an apparent attempt to barricade access.

_We are close._

A low growl to her right was echoed by another to her left. From each of the stairwells a group of werewolves ferociously rushed them.

Morrigan swiftly summoned an explosive blaze from the ground, forcing the three wolves to her side to fall back. Oghren stormed the other group, who renewed its attacks even more angrily. Jayne followed him.

"Hold the werewolves at bay!" she cried to Morrigan, who shot bolts of fire, forcing the other group to hide in the stairwell. She knew Morrigan could only sustain her attacks for so long before she exhausted herself. The familiar scrape of Zevran's daggers being pulled out of their sheaths sounded behind her. Summoning all her determination, she stepped forward, swinging her sword before her in a forceful arc, cutting into the bodies in front of them. Oghren smashed his mace in a werewolf's snout, blood splattering the stone wall.

As she looked up again, she heard Oghren yell, "Watch out!"

Another werewolf's fist beat the side of her helm. It shifted over her eyes momentarily, but she moved herself backwards, beyond his range. He pushed past her, aiming for Alistair, who'd been standing in a halting defensive stance behind them. She turned back to pursue it as the last werewolf began a full out assault upon them.

"Oghren!" she cried, chasing the escaped werewolf.

"I've got it," he yelled gruffly, brandishing his mace as the werewolf tried to encroach upon them.

The werewolf who'd bypassed her lunged upon Alistair, knocking him down to his knees with ease.

_No!_

Alistair frantically swatted at the creature, who then positioned itself strategically behind him, even as he tried to fight it off him.

_I cannot stop it! He is using Alistair's body for protection!_

The creature snarled at her menacingly as she approached. The stench of charred flesh wafted towards them in curls of thick black smoke from the other stairwell. She could sense Morrigan and Zevran approach her cautiously. The werewolf bared its teeth, gnashing them at her anytime she made the smallest motion.

_He's not wearing his helm. He took it off so he could breathe better, _she agonized.

"Do not hurt him— we did not come here to fight you and your people. We want to talk to Witherfang. We need your help," she spoke slowly and as calmly as she could.

The werewolf held Alistair's head in a chokehold. If it understood her words, it gave no indication other than an angry growl. Oghren began to walk up to her, but she signaled him to stop where he was. Alistair made a last attempt to loosen himself from the beast's grip, but as he tried to wrench its arm off him, the werewolf snarled furiously, redirecting its attention from Jayne back to its captive.

_It's going to kill him, _she realized with horror, as the werewolf shoved Alistair onto the ground, face down and his claws exposed the back of his neck.

A low flying flicker of silver whizzed past her hip, a dagger lodging itself sharply between the werewolf's eyes. The beast went limp, the expression of fury wilting into obliviousness, finally collapsing into a lifeless heap over Alistair.

It took a brief moment for Jayne to register what had just occurred. She dashed over to Alistair, pushing the dead werewolf off and helped him back to his feet. He threw his head back and closed his eyes.

"I thought that was it," he confessed. He was burning with fever, she realized.

"Please. You are in excellent hands," Zevran scoffed.

But Jayne could perceive even he was slightly unnerved by the attack.

"I used up any reserve of power I had left," Morrigan announced, rubbing her balled up hand with a pained expression. "I won't be able to cast any spells for a while."

Oghren peered at her, seeking guidance. Around them, even down the hall they had come from, she could hear scurrying. There was no turning back. The only way was forward, past the primitive fence.

"Quiet," she cautioned softly. "They don't need to know. We've won all our fights so far. We carry ourselves as if all were fine."

She walked towards the barricade.

"Oghren and I lead. Morrigan stay behind us with Alistair. Zevran, follow them closely. If anything, we close ranks among us. Morrigan, none of us have your powers, so you are not at a significant disadvantage. These creatures are strong, but other than their teeth and claws, they don't have any weapons. We strike at them, we hit their unarmored bodies. Use your staff as a weapon, if you have to. Strike them hard. We'll protect you and Alistair. In the meantime," she spoke to Oghren and Zevran, "have your weapons at the ready."

Zevran wandered to the werewolf's corpse to retrieve his dagger, pulling it out with more effort than anticipated, and then wiping the gore off the blade on the creature's fur with a look of revulsion. Alistair issued a volley of dry heaves that ended in a pitiful groan. Zevran looked at her warily. She understood what his eyes were telling her; their situation had become dire.

"Forward," she signaled them, past the barricade.


	25. Chapter 25

The barricade, Jayne realized, had probably been erected as some kind of defense against the undead who roamed the ruins. It hadn't been difficult to breach, but then again, the skeletal fighters they had encountered hadn't presented much of a challenge; they collapsed easily into piles of dust and fragmented bone. The party passed what was evidently a watch post: a pile of hay and blankets lay in a corner, next to an old lamp, a slightly bent, but sharp-tipped polearm, and the well picked off carcass of some small animal. They stepped over the makeshift shelter and ventured further ahead, down a series of stairwells that twisted and turned sharply, leading them to yet another door— this one imposing and foreboding. Growls, snarls, and low barks echoed from within. The group stayed close, hands tightly gripping weapons, the tension rising with every moment delayed before the closed door. Jayne swung it open, finding at first glance the expansive room surprisingly sparse. At the center, on a round stone dais, a rangy werewolf stood, facing them, upright and still. He held other werewolves beside and behind him at bay, motioning for them to remain in place.

"Don't stand down quite yet; stay on your guard," Jayne whispered cautiously, examining the werewolf.

He appeared old, she noticed. His black fur was tinged with silver and his muzzle was pale, all its hairs almost completely white. One of his eyes shone opaquely, cloudy and rheumy.

_He's almost blind, _she noticed, as he made a concerted effort to listen rather than look at them, his head tilted and his eyes downcast in the recognizable fog of those whose vision has begun to fail them. His ears twitched and she realized with a twinge of sadness that his aged countenance reminded her of Hunter, Fergus' Mabari ,who'd died only the past year after eighteen years of loyal companionship. They both shared the same cautious and grave expression.

"If only he could talk! What august advice would he dispense!" she and her father would tease anytime Hunter insisted in following Fergus to any of their meetings.

"He does, in his own way" Fergus protested, only half-jokingly. "He perceives things no one else picks up on."

Hunter had never liked Howe. Towards the end, anytime the man went to Highever, Hunter would growl persistently, to all of the Couslands' embarrassment. They attributed the dog's curious animosity to old age, senility.

_I wish I had made more of that dislike. _

She lowered her sword, an offering of appeasement. The other werewolves became agitated, but the elder werewolf intervened.

"Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease!" he cried out, his voice firm and clear despite the characteristic raspiness of the werewolves' speech. He lifted his head and his milky eyes roamed towards a fixed point above them. She sheathed her sword, despite Zevran's brief protest behind her, and stepped up on the dais, facing the stately werewolf. She patiently stood as he inhaled, sniffing the air, his lightless eyes attempting to take in her form.

"We do not wish any more of our people hurt," he revealed at last. "I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?" he continued, above the disapproving roars all around them. The other werewolves hunched forward eagerly, ready to spring upon them at the slightest command.

"Like you parlayed with the Dalish?" she asked suspiciously. She was not going to seize upon a false promise and lead them into a trap.

"That was different. The Lady believes that the Dalish have not told you everything, so she has asked that you be brought to her."

_The Lady, again. Who is this mysterious Lady? _she wondered, intrigued.

"She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one."

"If you were willing to talk, why didn't you earlier?" she asked, a slight edge in her voice, glancing over her shoulder at her ragged group. _And spared us all much misery?_

The old werewolf thought for a moment before answering.

"Swiftrunner did not think it would matter. The Lady disagrees, and since you have forced your way this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes."

"Is your Lady…Witherfang?" she finally asked.

"She is not Witherfang. But she can tell you of Witherfang, if you ask," he assured her. He then stood straighter. "But first you must agree to parley."

"Then take me to this Lady," Jayne agreed, nodding respectfully. She signaled the others, and they approached.

"Follow me. But I warn you: if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay," he warned them passionately, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

She did not doubt for a moment he would make good on his threat.


End file.
